


Of Clovers and Roses

by AlouVero



Category: Original Work, Weak Constitution: Common Cat
Genre: Angst, Bad Parenting, Bunny Boy, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Minor Character Death, Murder, Murder Mystery, Narcissism, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Some things that would be considered malpractice if someone was certified, Unreliable Narrator, discussion of drugging, fucked up magical society, no glorification of bad things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24127456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlouVero/pseuds/AlouVero
Summary: What do you get when you cross a birthday, a runaway rabbit, and a young man who has become completely disillusioned with the society he lives in?Mayhem.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 45
Kudos: 61
Collections: Weak Constitution Extended Universe





	1. What Happens To Runaways

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Weak Constitution: Common Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17302013) by [Awkward_Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awkward_Dragon/pseuds/Awkward_Dragon). 



> This is my first work and I don't really know what I'm doing formatting wise.  
> Hope you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited as of 7/19/2020
> 
> My ideas for this story and its characters have changed just enough that I've decided to go back through and edit each chapter before actually continuing. I will be changing the rating to explicit when I post the part that made me want to change it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

Three days. It's been three days since I was caught. Since I lost the closest thing to freedom I’ve ever had. Owned by the same man all my life, the only glimpses of wilderness I saw were the brief walks to and from carriages. I’d only felt sunlight when it had been filtered through glass. My skin has always been close to the shade of the fine porcelain the man who owned me ate off of. On bad days and now, it looks close to grey.

The room is dim, the cages little more than crates. For once I’m grateful for my small stature. I’m far less cramped than the feral beast across from me. I assume he's some kind of bear typing. He’s forced to lay with his knees to his chest, and seems unable to move more than an inch in any direction due to the bars of his cage. At least by now he’s stopped screaming.  
All I know about what happens to runaways came from rumors I’d heard. But the rumors had never sounded quite as brutal as this.

I assume I was caught by trappers, I also assume this place I am in is a shelter. But they don’t feed us. I guess it would be a bit pointless to. Most of us are too far gone to be of any use. Some talk to themselves, or scream like the bear. Not that I can judge, I’m sure I’ve had my fair share of bad impressions, even if I don’t remember them. 

Things could always be worse. At least I won’t be spending a night out in the rain for a while. Despite how dire my situation here might be, I’m finding it hard to care. I got away, and nobody knows what I’ve done. Why wouldn’t I be content to die before I’m found out?

Then again, death might be a bit too soon. I’d settle for a nap, but it’s impossible to sleep after one of the keepers enters, followed by a cruel eyed, silver haired man. He has a cane in one hand, and the hand of a little girl clutching his other. 

  
“Marcey, don’t cling,” The man grunts, “What are you afraid of? Fleas?”

  
The girl, stars she can’t be close to ten, looks into my crate with wide, terrified eyes as the man leads her past. I’ve always had a softness for children, despite it being used against me time and time again. I tried to offer her a look that would seem reassuring.

I didn’t expect to stop her dead in her tracks.

  
“Papa, I think he’d like this one.”

  
“Hm?”

  
The man looms in front of my crate, I only stare blankly back and try to look as sick as I feel. He won’t want to buy me if I don’t look like I’d last the ride ‘home’.

“Why..? His last wasn’t anything like it.. get him something intimidating at least.” He scowls at me, I’m worth less than dirt in his eyes. Good.

  
  


“Well, he’s been wanting a rabbit. A small one. He was reading a study-“ the girl trails off as the man's scowl is turned onto her instead. I get a bad feeling, one that I really ought to be used to by now. I need to control my temper. That little girl has more status than I ever will. She doesn’t need my protection, I can’t afford to give her my protection-

But I can’t help myself, not now. My ears press back against my head of their own accord. A low rumbling growl escapes me. My teeth would have been grinding if my mouth wasn’t still so sore. 

Of course this earns me unwanted attention. 

He scrutinizes me, it’s a lot to force my gaze onto the fine carved wooden cane he's holding, and it’s even more effort to keep from spitting in his face. I wouldn’t mind dying- but I’m not entirely suicidal. 

“It’ll do.” He mutters before looking expectantly to the keeper, “Why don’t you put it under for me? I can already tell there’s a flight risk.”

My eyes stay on the floor out of fear now. I hate needles, and that’s exactly what the keeper sets about preparing at the man's request. As the front of my cage is opened I crowd against the bars behind me, growling again as the keeper begins reaching for me.Clearly they have no idea what I’m capable of. All of my unspoken warnings to leave me to my quiet death are completely ignored. 

Except by the girl. Her face suddenly enters my field of vision as she gives me this look of… worry? Curiosity? Whatever it is it startles me enough to jerk and give the bastard an opportunity to plunge the needle into my neck. 

I will not go down easily. I refuse to be meek ever again. I thrash and claw as much as I can in the tight space. But the drug acts quickly, and my body gives in before my mind. 

As shadows crowd my vision, the man sneers and mouths something I’m perfectly fine never knowing.    
  
  


When I wake, I’m in a different dim room, I can tell because it's quiet. My head is pounding, I’m thirsty. With clumsy fingers I search the stone floor in front of me only to find that there's no bars, at least not within arms reach. But even if my legs were listening to me, I wouldn’t be able to get very far. A heavy collar, made of the same metal as the chain tethering me to the wall, has been locked around my neck. I’m smaller than whoever it was intended for though, if my nose wasn’t in the way I might’ve been able to push it off over my head.

My clothes are gone, which I guess is to be expected. They were filthy before the trappers got me. But I would have still preferred them to lying naked on cold stone in a dark and unfamiliar place.

Panic truly starts setting in when the room is suddenly illuminated by wall mounted lanterns. There’s one heavy wooden door at the far end of the room, and instruments of torture lining the walls up to it. 

For a moment I’m overwhelmed by an impossible thought, that I’d been caught by him. Dragged back and locked in the training room until he finds time to properly beat me to death. 

There’s many reasons why that’s impossible though. For one, he’d never bother to clean the blood off his tools. This training room smells recently cleaned, even if the faint scent of iron is tangible in the air still, coming from a drain beneath a table with leather straps.   
Then, of course, there's the fact that he’s dead.

It’s the voices in the hallway that replace my irrational fears with a different, far more tangible anxiety. My ears are ringing too loud for me to make out any of the words, but at least I’m sure that neither of the voices are his. 

The scowling man from the shelter shoves open the door, still leaning on his cane. A much younger man follows him in. His hair a light brown, his grey eyes a mistake to look into. The scowling man stays by the door while the young man stalks towards me. 

My heart pounds. The blaring in my ears is all consuming. And when he reaches for my face- I sink my teeth into his wrist. 


	2. A Bunny in the Basement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say hi to the birthday boy.
> 
> Edited as of 7/20/20: Dialogue changed. I didn't like it >:(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if updates will always come in pairs but I at the very least wanted to show the viewpoint of both MC's back to back at the beginning. Its pretty safe to assume that the trade off will happen every chapter.

“Nico! Papa and I bought you a present!”

Marcey is probably the only person in the world who I don’t mind interrupting a good book. 

“Really? Thank you. I can’t wait to open it at the party.”

I turn to look at her, standing in the doorway of my old bedroom. She looks a bit palid. 

“No,” she says, “It’s for you now. Since Rosie can’t be with you at the party. Papa’s waiting for you in the basement.”

It makes sense that she’s the one telling me this. I’d made it very clear to our father that I didn’t want a new pet. Marcey knows this too, even if I’ve shielded her from the exact reasons why. 

“I shouldn’t keep him waiting then.”

Mournfully, my page is marked and my book is set on my desk. I do my best to keep from sounding too bitter. My kid sister has never done anything to deserve my drama. 

I’m not above messing up her hair as I pass her though, able to elicit a moment of the teasing sibling affection that’s been so scarce lately. That’s entirely my fault for not being around. 

  
  


Marcey calls it a basement, but really it’s a dungeon. The manor has been in our family for generations, which suggests a flair for the dramatic runs through our blood. A stone spiral staircase, alcoves carved into the walls just the right size to leave a lit candle in. What are we? Ghosts? What modern thinking man would both leave such a basement as if it were based out of a horror novel  _ and _ deem it a suitable place for a room dedicated to training his pets? I find it all disturbing on multiple levels. 

Disturbing just seems to be all I’ve been seeing my father as lately. Especially when I find him standing in the basement corridor lit only by the glow of an alcove candle, waiting in the dark for me just so that he can dramatically turn on the actual lights for the hall and the training room.

“Good afternoon, sir.” I say, managing to sound only mildly sarcastic. 

“For the love of- Nicolai, are you honestly still bitter? It’s been a month. Get over yourself.” 

Years ago the angry tap of his cane might’ve sent me scrambling to appease him. Today I just offer him a toneless ‘over what?’ as he leads me down the rest of the hall. 

“What you need, son, is to learn responsibility.”

What a wonderful birthday present. Just what I always wanted. 

“I’m sure you’re grateful for this second chance to live up to our family name. Your sister even picked your next project out for you herself.”

“Which is why I plan to treasure it, how could I sell such a thoughtful gift?” My smooth interjection will only earn me my father’s ire, but I forge on, “I’m not going to be a trainer. No matter what you say.”

Whatever unfortunate soul he has locked behind this door, I refuse to sell. Whether or not they’ll stay in my care remains to be seen. But I won’t abandon anyone to the cruel system my father perpetuates. Never again.

“Hmph” he reaches for the doorknob, “At least show me you’ve learned from your mistakes.”

I offer him no answer, brushing past him more to get away from this conversation than to hurry and claim my ‘gift’. 

When I see the chained rabbit though, I can’t exactly say I’m not a bit excited. I recognize the breed instantly. It’s touching that Marcey was able to tell as well, considering she had to have been going off of the few times I’ve raved to her.

Lavender grey coat with eyes to match. Small stature and rounded features. Classic, adorable stick-up rabbit ears that are also not too tall. All hallmarks of my favored type, the one I had reached out to a breeder about before... 

It’s incredibly lucky I get to lay eyes on him at all, knowing the shady places my father frequents to aquire his own ‘projects’. 

Poor thing has an odd look to him though, and when I reach out to see what I can do about the chains-

I should have expected him to lash out. It’s obvious that wherever my father found him left it’s toll on him. The sort of ‘shelters’ my father frequents are rarely legal, and I’m livid that he’d take my kid sister somewhere so tasteless. 

His teeth in my forearm hurts, but there’s something about the feeling that catches my attention. I have to pry him off of my arm with my free hand so that I can take two fingers and push them in between his molars, prying his mouth open. His two front teeth have been pulled out. Fairly recently if his bruised gums are anything to go by. 

“Did it just try to bite you?” It seems my father doesn’t have an entirely perfect view from his place by the door. That's a relief.

I lock eyes with the bunny before answering. He did more than try. He’d easily be put down for this, and from the look on his face I think he knows. 

“Did you drug him? He’s so out of it, I think it was just a reflex.” I let go of the boy's jaw and remove my fingers from his mouth as I make excuses for him. 

“Well be sure that ‘reflex’ is corrected by the party. Even half conscious, that behavior is a steep slope to bad things.”

I have to suppress the urge to assure my father that yes, I know what biting is. He’s right about one thing though, this little bunny must be pretty unstable to actually go through with biting me. If he’s too far gone, it might actually be kinder to have him put down than force him to live in my father's house for a week.    
  


“I’ll take care of him. We’ll nip a bad habit like that right in the bud.” I don’t let my voice sound too warm for my father's sake, but to make up for it I take to gently smoothing back some of the lavender curls on the head in front of me.   
When my father continues to stand by the door, staring at me, my stomach sinks. He expects me to do something _now._

There is a brief moment where I consider it. My father started preparing me to take over his training business when I was 16. In theory I know what _should_ be done to correct violent behavior, but at the same time it seems as though someone has already tried a similar approach by wrenching out his teeth.  
Hitting him won’t calm him down, pain won’t help me foster any sort of trust with him.  
  
“I said I’d take care of it. Do you really need to be leering over my shoulder?” I let my annoyance seep into the look I shoot my father.  
Just as I’d hoped, my father heads back out the door, shaking his head in disgust. Unfortunately I don’t get to bask in my victory long before I feel teeth sink into my hand again, followed by little talons clawing at my sweater.  
I hiss out the pain but don’t let myself cry out too much. The sounds of our scuffle don’t worry me too much considering what my father will probably think is happening, but if I hollar in pain he’s not so much an idiot that he wouldn’t be able to figure out that I have no control over this situation.  
  
A few minutes of life-or-death wrestling go by before I manage to catch both of the rabbits wrists and pin him to the floor.  
  
“Buddy, hey now, it's okay. I was lying,” I’m a little miffed that he’s torn my favorite sweater, but I’m aware there are more important things to worry about, “I’m not going to do anything bad to you, I just needed that old grump out of here…”  
  
My new friend looks borderline feral. His pupils livid pinpricks and the teeth he still has bared at me in obvious distrust and frustration.   
  
“You’re really tough, aren’t you..? I’m impressed. Definitely not going to try anything funny with you, no sir.” I babble as a distraction while trying to figure out how to give the guy some breathing room without him having a chance to tear into me again. He’s yet to say anything to me, if he’s truly this far gone then there's no way I can feel safe keeping him. What if he decided to go after Marcey..?  
  
“Get. Off. Me.”  
  
They aren’t so much words as they are barely controlled growls, but I’m glad he’s at least lucid enough to talk.  
  
“If I let go of you, will you stop trying to attack me?”  
  
“..... maybe.”  
  
That's about the answer I expected. And the best I’ll probably get. Slowly, I ease off of his wrists, working and wriggling until I’m able to escape.

He doesn’t move, though he does growl in warning every time it seems like I might try to touch him again.

  
The first thing I do is get some distance and squirm out of my sweater to see just how bad the damage is. He growls again and I don’t address it. He won’t believe my words right now, so I just have to show him through my actions. I don’t intend to hurt him. Besides, it's only the sweater I’ve taken off, I had a button up underneath it and an undershirt beneath that.   
My poor sweater goes on the table, I sit on the edge so I can observe him for a moment. The fight took a lot out of him, and I doubt he had much energy to begin with. He’s panting, trembling, I don’t think he’d be able to make it up the stairs on his own.  
  
“Let me get the key for that collar. We can get you patched up somewhere nicer upstairs.”  
  
I can feel his glare on me as I make it over to the door where the keys for all the training room locks are on a little hook. The labels are faded, but I know well enough which is which.  
  
“.... You’re going to take me out? I bit you.”  
  
A question and a sentence. That's very promising.  
  
“That you did,” I answer with a smile, “You’ve just woken up in a strange place with a strange guy over you- it only makes sense to be on edge. I’m not going to hold it against you.”  
  
He still looks plenty suspicious as I kneel in front of him. But at least he’s not lunging.   
  
“I freaked you out, so I’m sorry for that. Can we start over? No more biting, no more scaring?”  
  
As a show of good faith, and possibly a minor concussion, I hold out the key. 

  
After a minute of glaring and trying to tell if I’m sincere, he takes it.   
  



	3. Making Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our bitey bunny boy gets a bath and a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And heres a chapter that will double our word count. Please say hi to the unreliable narrator tag.  
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Edited 7/20/20

My new master is confusing and an idiot. He seems more upset about the hole in the front of his stupidly soft sweater than about the marks from my teeth on his hands. He must be trying to trick me, that much is obvious. Idiot or not he couldn’t possibly be dense enough to just give me the key to my chains.

Yet, my hand closes around the cold metal all the same, and he does nothing but smile.   
  


He backs off even, letting me fumble and free myself. The heavy collar clatters to the floor and I’m swaying in my newfound weightlessness. Of course the first thing I try to do is force myself to my feet, try to find a way past the idiot and then try to find a way outside. But I’m in no state at all to run.  
  
The room turns into a whirl of color as I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes and nose. Ice shoots through my veins and clogs my throat, suffocating me until I pitch forward into something warm, soft, and solid.  
  
“Hey, hey, hey, easy buddy-”  
  


The warmth is coming from him. He was quick to pull me against his chest, my cheek rubbing the soft fabric of the white button up he was wearing under his just as soft sweater.   
  


Curse him. 

  
“Are you still with me?”  
  
His hand goes to my neck, just under my jaw, then up to rest across my forehead. The light touch makes my skin crawl regardless of how gentle he’s being. I want to scream, kick, bite, anything but my limbs won’t listen to me. Is it fear that keeps me frozen? I’m limp in his arms as he reaches behind him and grabs the stupid sweater.  
  
I’m not sure what I expected him to do with it, but I wasn’t expecting him to put it on me. Suddenly, the sweater isn’t all that stupid anymore. In fact, I love it. It's the most perfect thing I’ve ever come into contact with. Big enough to cover me, warm enough to calm me and make me forget to freak out as the idiot picks me up and carries me out into the stone hallway. 

He talks softly to me as he takes me to a dim stairwell, but I’m only half listening. 

“I have just the thing to fix you up- don’t go fainting on me again, okay..? It’s freaking me out a bit that you’re so calm all of a sudden..”

I heave a halfhearted growl that morphs into a much more pitiful sound as I realize that by curling up a little I can fit my legs up into the sweater as well. 

I don’t know how long I’m lost in the sweater haze. But I’m mildly aware of where the idiot seems to be taking me. The dim stairs led to the kitchens and a narrow hallway bustling with servants. Distantly, I realize two things. 1. This house is far bigger than I had thought and 2. Nobody seems surprised to see me in the masters clothes and arms.   
  
“- platter up to my room. I’d like to see what the kitchen staff has planned for the party.”  
  
The idiot issues an order to somebody as he brushes by them. There's a cold authority in his voice that causes me to go rigid. I’m expecting to see the old man again, sneering down at me. The idiot hadn’t taken that tone with me at all when we were in the basement, and when I risk a glance upwards he's frowning at me. It's not an angry frown, I’m not even sure if it's meant for me. Maybe he’s worried I’m going to lash out at him again, and I would if I wasn’t afraid doing so would cause me to lose my sweater privileges.

He doesn’t speak until he’s carried me up yet another flight of stairs and into a room that looks like it belongs to a child. There's a mobile of different colored stars hanging from the ceiling, shelves of books and old toys arranged lovingly, a daybed with a cheerfully patterned quilt, and a luxurious looking pet bed under the window. It looks like a sofa with no backing, but instead sloped on two sides to provide support for the nest of blankets and pillows piled onto it.  
  
“Can you walk?”  
  
The idiot seemed to disapprove of my staring at the pet bed in particular, but I don’t let that dissuade me. There's something shiny on one of the pillows that I can’t make out from this distance.  
  
He sets me down on my feet, but I still crumple to my knees, unable to carry my own weight. The rug underneath me breaks my fall, though it isn’t as soft as the sweater.  
  
“Are you ignoring me or is something seriously wrong with you?”  
  
He’s getting frustrated with me. If I had a sense of self preservation I would apologize. There are times when I can’t control my inattentiveness, but I have been deliberately ignoring him.  
  
“Both.” Is the simple answer I finally give him. To my surprise the fact that I’ve answered him at all relieves him.  
  
“Great. Let’s see what we can do about that then. Can I help you to the bathroom?”  
  
Not wanting to be touched again, I try to stand. Colors swirl in front of my eyes before I’m plunged into darkness. I feel him catch me, but for several seconds I’m unable to see him.  
  
“What is it? Are you dizzy? Do your legs hurt?”

  
“I..”  
  
Dizzy seems to best describe the way I’m feeling, but I can’t piece together the right words to tell him so. Instead I glare at the fuzzy shapes slowly coming into focus. Let him think I’m just defiant instead of broken.  
  
With a sigh, he half-carries me into white tiled bathroom and has me sit on the edge of the tub. Worried I might topple one way or the other, I cling to the tubs rim and grit my teeth.  
  
He opens a cabinet door under the sink and begins pulling out glass bottles filled with various colored liquids.   
  
“You going to drug me?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears, but the idiot hears me well enough.  
  
“These are potions. I brewed them myself. I’m just going to give you something with mild restorative properties.” He pours something red into something teal and swirls it until it turns gold and begins emitting a dull glow, “How long ago were your teeth pulled?”  
  
The question catches me a bit off guard. I’m not entirely sure of the answer.  
  
“Couple days..?”  
  
“Alright. They might not grow back right away but this’ll at least help with the discomfort.”  
  
The glowing bottle is held in front of my face, I have to release one side of the tub to take it from him.  
  
“Drink all of it,” He says softly, “it doesn’t taste the best, but I’ll get you something to wash it down with.”  
  
I don’t really have much of a choice. Plus if I just drink it myself I won’t need to see if he’d be willing to force feed it to me.   
  
The potion doesn’t taste all that bad. Tart and gritty, but I’ve certainly had worse things in my years.

“How old are you?”  
  
A classic question, and one I’m not willing to answer directly.

“I don’t know.”  
  


“Really..? Are you sure you don’t even have a guess?”  
  
“Not one I’m gonna tell you.”  
  
He’s only amused by my non-answer, taking a seat on the floor in front of me.  
  
“Do you have a name?”  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
He laughs and I see red. It's a blessing he’s taking my foul language in good humor, but I still want to tear out his throat.  
  
“So your old master didn’t name you?”  
  
He did, but I don’t want to ever be called that name again. Unfortunately my silence doesn’t stop this impromptu interview. 

“Are they going to come looking for you?”  
  
“No.” I mutter.  
  
“Are you sure..? I just want to know if-”  
  
“He’s dead.”  
  
It's the first time I’ve said as much out loud, and to a listening person too. An emotion I can’t name rises in my chest. Tears prick at my eyes and it's mortifying how quickly he notices.  
  
“Oh no, I’m so sorry- You must have been close..”  
  
“I _hated_ him.”  
  
I don’t have a chance to feel satisfied about stunning him into silence, sobs have sent me into shaking. It's the truth. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t miss the bastard.  
  
“He deserved it. I’m glad hes dead, I hated him, I hate him-”  
  
It's getting hard to maintain my balance. I’m saved from cracking my skull on the porcelain by instead being dragged into my new masters lap. He keeps my facing away from him, holding my arms in place to prevent me from scratching at him. I can’t even get a good angle for a kick.   
  
“I’m sorry,” his apology means nothing, no matter how soft and gentle he may sound, “I just have one more question.”  
  
Bastard, idiot, asshole-  
  
“Was your growth stunted on purpose?”  
  
I was already gasping for air, how noticeable is the stutter of my breath? And why do I still feel the need to answer him?  
  


“You can tell..?”   
  
“A lifetime ago I wanted to be a vet. I made it halfway through school, read a lot of things…”  
  
He moves to hold both of my wrists in one hand, guiding my head back against his shoulder with the other.  
  
“Breathe buddy… it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help. Can you tell me how they did it? Was it a pill? A spell?”  
  
I shake my head. I wasn’t conscious when they did it, and it was a one time thing.   
  
“I don’t know.” I manage to choke out, hoping that will be enough to get him to just leave me alone.  
  


He releases me, and I find that soon the odd dizziness is gone too. I scramble away from him, pressing myself against the room's farthest wall as I attempt to get myself back under control. I feel shaky and sick.  
  


He watches. I see a coldness in his eyes and don’t doubt that he’s plotting something. When I manage to stop crying he plugs the tub and fills it up halfway with water.  
  
“Clean up a bit. Call if you need anything. Help yourself to anything in here.” He doesn’t really look at me on his way out the door. I can assume that offer doesn’t apply to the stash of potions, but I’m not really interested in drinking something that could very well turn me blue and then make me explode into confetti.   
  
Being left entirely alone with a tub of warm water is a wonder. I’ve had baths before, but never unsupervised. This master closes the door behind him, and I hear no objections when I audibly flip the lock to keep him out. Its loathsome to have to set aside the sweater, but I also can’t bear the thought of getting it wet. No amount of warm water could replace the soft knit.   
  
The potion’s effect gradually becomes more obvious. He wasn’t lying about it being helpful at least. Not that it makes him any less of a bossy bitch.   
  
My arms don’t even ache as I set about scrubbing myself clean. I’m vigorous in my motions, I don’t stop on any limb until my skin has gone raw and red. I need the smell of the shelter off of me, the shelter and everything that came after it. 

However, the potion doesn’t help with my nerves. My jaw stays clenched in case my thoughts try to force themselves into words again, and even though I was daring enough to lock the door, I can feel eyes on me as soon as I lose the protection of my commandeered sweater. It's my imagination. It must be, not that that realizing so makes it easier to cope. 

The scrapes on my shins have healed over in the time it takes for me to scrub all the dirt off my legs. Next time I need to run barefoot through long stretches of undeveloped fields and forests, I’ll make sure to wear longer pants. 

I didn’t mind the wilderness. I didn’t mind picking bugs and burrs out of my hair. If what I wanted mattered, I would have liked to stay there. I would have chosen waste away in some desolate meadow where the only ones who could have made use of my body would have been wildlife.   
  
With the majority of the forest in the water instead of on me, I fuss with the plug until the water drains. I can’t manage to turn the water on again though, so I wash my hair and face in the sink instead. Or at least, I try to. My hair was already a matted, tangled mess. I’ve never had to wash it myself before.  
  
It's been a long time since I’ve seen myself in a mirror. I don’t look good. There's a glint in my own eyes that frightens me. I look capable, even if nobody knows what I’ve done. 

My reflection prods at the still sore scars curling up from his jaw and down from the inner side of his eye. It must have been deeper than I thought.  
  
A few sniffs finds me a towel that doesn’t reek of my new master. There's a confused swirl of guilt and satisfaction when I see the streaks of dirt and grime I leave on it. I’m not perfectly clean, but I do feel better. Especially once I’ve pulled the sweater back on. If I was a good pet I’d set aside my discomfort and be grateful for this luxury. I’m not good, but I should at least pretend. He’s an idiot, if I get my act together now I’m sure I can get him to believe that his potion and a bath is all I needed to fix myself. 

The door clicks softly as I unlock it. Opening it just a crack, I can recognize my new master's voice, and the little girl from the shelter.  
  
“Leave some for him, Marcey. You shouldn’t be snacking before dinner anyway.”  
  
“You’re the one with snacks in your room..”  
  
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and is the first to look at me when I fully open the door. She’s sitting at his desk, picking at a platter of crackers, cheese, and sliced vegetables. Her face lights up when she sees me.  
  
“You’re okay! I was really scared, that shot was sooooo big and you were all floppy, I-”  
  
The way she eagerly bombards me with these yet to be suppressed horrors reminds me of falling out of a tree and crashing into every branch on the way down.  
  
I’m not sure what she wants from me. An apology?

“I’m… sorry?”  
  
She rushes me physically then, small arms winding around my waist. Master Idiot looks horrified to see her so close to me. But he doesn’t make any move to stop her. He’s testing my control.  
  
“I’m glad you’re not hurt.” She mumbles into my chest.   
  
Cautiously, I raise my arms to hug her back. This little girl doesn’t inspire nearly as much panic in me as her brother and father.   
  
“I’m sorry you were scared, Miss.” I keep my voice sweet, “It’s touching that you were concerned, you must be very kind hearted…”  
  
That brings her smile back, and thankfully she soon limits her hold on me to just one of my hands.  
  
“Don’t you like him, Nico? I picked him!”  
  
He’s still watching me, I force myself not to check if his smile reaches his eyes.  
  
“He’s perfect.” this master lies well. It’d do me good to remember that.  
  
“Do you think Rosie would like him?”  
  
I’ve never heard that name before. The sound of it makes my master go rigid. I wonder if it has anything to do with the pet bed I’m not supposed to look at.   
  
“Can you help me with something, Marcey?” Master ignores the question entirely with no skill at all, “He needs a good name. Do you have any ideas?”  
  
There's a moment of silence as Marcey gives her brother a dumbfounded look. She doesn’t seem used to being brushed off that way.   
  
“Well. I think it should match with Rosie’s. That way they’ll get along when you introduce them.”  
  
Her brother gives a defeated mumble of ‘good idea’ that she somehow finds satisfying. I’m led by the hand back over to where she had been sitting before I entered. Crackers and slices of cucumber are pressed into my hands while the pair of siblings tries to figure out what to call me. Given how hungry I am, they disappear as fast as I’m given them.   
  
“How about… Dandelion.”  
  
I visibly cringe at the thought of being named after a weed. Thankfully my master has enough sense to realize this as well.  
  
“Hm. I don’t think it suits him very well… How about something shorter? If you really want him to match with Rosie he’s going to need a more formal name for me to put on his tag.”  
  
I hardly understand why he's bothering to give me one name. It's utter nonsense to hear that he wants me to have two.  
  
“Um… Lilac? Lavender? That's what he is right?”  
  
“Heh, yeah. That's what his coloring is called, but don’t you think that's kind of crass for a name? Imagine if your actual name was ‘pigtails’.”  
  
Now I’m really lost. Those are all perfectly acceptable names for a pet. Marcey is getting frustrated too, and I hardly blame her.  
  
“Then, what about Lucky? It starts with the same letter…” she pouts up at me for a moment, frowning when she sees that I’m less than enthused, “Or… or… Clover. Like a four-leaf clover.”  
  


“... Clover is good. I like Clover.” the master looks thoughtful.  
  
Frankly, at this point, I couldn’t care less what I’m called. I’ll be gone the first chance I get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I wanted was to give him his NAME


	4. Making Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico looks forward to a nice family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm trying to post this, some bizarre stuff is going on with the formatting. I've kinda given up trying to fix it so I'm sorry if it looks like hell here.

* * *

As soon as I close the bathroom door, I can practically hear her voice.  
  
‘ _That was your idea of not scaring him? You’re beyond cruel.’_ _  
_ _  
_“I had to do it. He wasn’t going to give me any answers otherwise.” I mutter under my breath, “It’s not like I have his file or anything.”  
  
I’m not even going to bother asking my father about a file. If he’d bothered to get one at all, it would probably be forged. The only reliable information I’m going to get will come from the bunny himself.  
  
‘ _So that makes it okay to drug him?’_ _  
_ _  
_It was a side effect of the potion and it was for his own good.  
  
‘ _That makes total sense. A basic healing potion with the off chance of making you answer any question you’re asked.’_ _  
_ _  
_“Oh, what do you even know about potions, Rose?”  
  
 _‘I know you’re better than that.’_ _  
_ _  
_It's in my head. I know it. I mixed the potion so that I could get some answers out of him, lied to him about it, and now the guilt is getting to me. Driving me quite literally mad as I pace the room and argue with myself.  
  
“I had to know.”  
  
 _‘You wanted to know.’_ _  
_ _  
_“Would you just, knock it off!”  
  


I whirl around just in time to startle the maid trying to discreetly put the platter of food I’d asked for on the desk.   
  
“Not.. Not you, thank you. I was just… reenacting a line from a very good book.”

  
“Of course, young master.”   
  


She goes, no doubt to spread rumors of my lunacy throughout the manor. ‘Armon Ward’s eccentric heir, broken in the absence of his beloved roach-’

  
  
Is it wrong for me to still be so broken up? It's only been a month. The only other person not acting as if Rosie never existed is Marcey, and that's only because I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’s died.

Marcey has more memories of Rosie than she does of our mother. The two of them were nearly inseparable until I moved out. How am I supposed to explain to her that she’s gone?

  
  
“... Are you trying to melt that cheese with your eyes?”  
  
I’d been so caught up in my woes that I hadn’t noticed Marcey leaning on my desk, chin in her hands.

  
  
“Huh?” 

  
“You’ve been glaring at the plate for five whole minutes.. What's wrong with it?” 

  
She reaches past me to grab a cracker for herself, inspecting it before shrugging and taking a bite. Crumbs fly across my desk as she says ‘at least this one tastes good’.  
  


“Marcey, ewwww!” I laugh, nudging her chin to get her to chew with her mouth shut , “Where are your manners, young lady? I thought eight year olds were supposed to have them at all times.”  
  
“I’m not eight!”  
  
For a moment, I panic. It would be impossible to forgive myself if I’d really managed to forget my only sibling's age. Especially when I can still count the number of birthdays she’s had with my fingers.   
  
“I’m eight _and_ three quarters.”  
  
Oh thank fuck.  
  


“Of course, of course, how silly of me-”  
  
Needing a moment, I plop down on the edge of the bed. I am so very past my stress threshold for the day, and I’ve yet to even face my father for dinner. At this rate, a premature heart attack would be a blessing. 

Predictably, my sister continues to shed herself of proper decorum and begins to attack the snack platter I’d ordered to feed my new friend. Against my better judgement I’m still hoping that he can recover. It's clear he’s dealing with a lot of pain and fear, but if he flies off the handle again and my father see’s, I’m not positive how much I would risk in order to protect him.  
  
And doesn’t that thought just make me feel like a monster, especially when I notice the bathroom door slowly creeping open. Curse Rosie for instilling morals in me.  
  
“Leave some for him, Marcey. You shouldn’t be snacking before dinner anyway.”  
  
“You’re the one with snacks in your room..”  
  
What follows is one of the hardest conversations I’ve taken part in in weeks. Saying her name out loud, in the context of naming who is no doubt meant to be her replacement, makes me want to cut out my tongue.   
  
At least I feel a smidge lighter after successfully steering Marcey towards a name that doesn’t make Clover visibly recoil. It's a cute name, and makes a good contrast with the rabid personality I've seen from him so far. 

  
Then again, the way he curled up in my arms when I was carrying him earlier was very cute as well.   
  


“What do you think, Clover? Is it bearable?”  
  
His eyes flicker to mine. He makes brief eye contact easily, I wonder if it's a bad habit we’ll have to work on or just a small act of defiance he’s allowing himself. Either way, if he’s caught doing that outside this room I’ll have to punish him.  
  


“Of course,” he’s taken on a good sweet, harmless pet act in front of Marcey, “thank you for putting so much thought into something so trivial, Miss.”  
  


Marcey’s pleased by his approval, though I can’t help but feel his words might have been a hidden dig at me. I’ll have to hope one day he forgives me for making sure he has a respectable name.  
  


“For a tag name,” I start, getting Marcey’s attention and Clover's visible confusion, “How about Clovis? It’s all I can think of that sounds close.”  
  


Ultimately, it’ll be my decision what goes on his collar. Neither of them seem interested in rebutting me. That could be because Clover clearly doesn’t know what I’m going on about. If he just asked, I’d tell him. Unfortunately, he has no reason to trust me that much yet.  
  


“Well, since that's squared away, we should get ready for dinner, Marcey.” With forced enthusiasm, I cross the room to my closet. Even if I hadn’t sacrificed my sweater to Clover, I would still be considered underdressed. Dinner with my father is not a casual affair.   
  


“Oh! I’m not supposed to eat downstairs tonight.” Marcey pipes up, “Papa said he wanted to have some time with you alone.”  
  


Isn’t that just my luck.  
  


* * *

Clover hadn’t managed to break my skin earlier, so a dab of my own healing ointment is enough to make sure what few marks remain are gone by the time I’m sitting across from my father.   
  
He seemed to be doing well enough with Marcey that I allowed her to bring him to her room while I’m busy with dinner. She’d been making plans for dress up and a tea party, and he’d actually seemed interested.   
  
Hopefully I wasn’t making a mistake.  
  


“Good evening, father.”  
  
I take my seat, the one right of the head of the table where he’s sitting. Dinner has already been served. I’m late.  
  
It's surprising he doesn’t make any comments about it.  
  


“What do you think of your present?”

Now that I have joined him, he picks up his fork and knife and begins to eat. Is it a power move, I wonder, to ensure your mouth is full when someone else is talking to you?  
  


“I’m very fond of him already. Marcey did a wonderful job choosing him, she came to my room and helped me pick out a name just now.”  
  


Normally, Marcey is a neutral topic between us. My father puts on a cold front, but I know he loves her. He’s always saying with pride how much she resembles our mother.  
  


“I didn’t know you had an interest in rabbits.” He remarks in return, I sense a hidden jab but can’t figure out exactly what or why.  
  
“Just one particular breed…” I try to tread carefully, “I think they might have a genetic disposition towards some syndromes. I was planning on attending an auction next month. There's a breeder who died recently, most of his stock unsold and very high quality. If I got one young enough I could study-”   
  


“You’re writing another book.”  
  


It's the most absurd accusation disguised as a simple statement. I can’t believe he thinks this is worth talking about.   
  


“Of course I am. I need to earn money somehow.”  
  


“But by being the laughing stock of the veterinary community? Really Nicolai? After all I’ve done for you, you’re going to continue making a mockery of the family name?”  
  


“My research is entirely sound.” My voice is calm but my hands are shaking. I’ve yet to touch my food, “My writing has nothing to do with your image-”  
  


“It has everything to do with it! The world thinks I’ve raised a sorry fool of a son! One who's out to destroy everything I stand for!”  
  


“Oh please, I’m hardly out to destroy anything-”  
  


“Don’t you dare lie to me, Nicolai.”  
  


There's rage seething behind the look he gives me. I’m extremely aware of the knife in his hand.  
  
Disengage. This is more about him then it is about you.   
  


“I think I’ll finish my dinner in my room. Goodnight father.”  
  


“You’d make a perfect trainer, Nicolai. You have the skill. I’ve built up an entire business, all you have to do is receive it.”  
  


Every talk we have comes back to this. There's a reason I don’t stay in the city long.  
  


“Goodnight, father.”  
  



	5. A Tea Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clover learns some things about his new family.  
> (Edit: corrected some typos that were bothering me.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for arachnophobia and animal death I guess? Theres a dead spider mentioned towards the end, it will not be smushed. Let me know if you want exact parts to skip.

* * *

How did I get here? Sitting in this little chair, holding a tiny teacup while this child attempts to get as many ribbons as possible tangled in my already fairly knotted hair. I’d tried to warn her that my hair wasn’t clean enough for her to touch, but she didn’t answer me at all.

The following lapse of silence has only made me worried. I’m not sure how she thinks of me. Most children are kind by nature, that's why I tend to favor them, but it can be hard to tell if that kindness comes from genuine innocence or if you’ve just become their new toy.

Either way, this girl is exceptionally kind to me. After the idiot had left all nervous looking to go have dinner with the scary old man, she’d started looking through my masters closet. Eventually she’d stuffed an armload of clothes close to my size into my arms and sent me into the bathroom to change.

The shorts were made of a fine material, and modestly covered me down to my knees. Soft white socks that went up to my calves and had little black bows on the back didn’t seem like the sort of thing my master was interested in wearing, but they reminded me of simpler times. I think I’d been given a pair like them once before, though I don’t remember what I had done to get them taken away.

The little miss had given me shoes too. Ones that probably had belonged to my master at one point. The black leather was worn but comfortable. There was padding inside that fit my feet pretty well. They’d be good for running. Or, at least better than being barefoot.

“Hey Clover?” The little miss pulls me out of my thoughts, “Do you already know Rosie?”

“I don’t believe I do, miss… Would you like to tell me about her?”

I don’t get an answer right away, but she does stop tying a strip of frilly blue ribbon just below one of my ears, and then walk around the small tea table to sit across from me.

“... Can you keep a secret, Clover…?”

One of her pinkies sticks out as she pretends to take a drink from one of the empty tea cups.

“I won’t tell a soul, you have my word.” I can’t help but be amused by how serious she looks. What secret could this little girl have to warrant such a grave expression?

“You can’t tell Nico. It's really important. It’d make him sad.”

“Of course.”

She taps the side of her cup, nervously squirming in her seat.

“Rosie isn’t going to come back…” She whispers it, as if she's afraid somebody might hear her.

“Oh..?” it seemed like she wanted a verbal response, but I’m not really sure what to say. I’m not aware of all the gossip surrounding this ‘Rosie’ character.

Thankfully an answer at all let the girl feel as though it was okay to keep talking.

“Nico keeps saying she’ll come back. It makes him really sad already that she’s not here, so it’d make him even more sad if he knew what happened. I really don’t want him to leave again.”

I barely know this girl, but some soft part in my chest twists when I notice just how stressed she seems to be. It isn’t right for a child of her age, let alone of her status.

“I won’t tell him,” I promise, “would you like to tell me any more secrets..?”

My hope is that she might feel better if I get her to talk more, but she bites her lip and shakes her head, worried that she’s already said too much.

“Alright then,” I reach across the table and pick up a hand painted teapot, “More tea miss?”

I earn a small smile for that, and a string of quiet giggles when I create my own sound effects while pouring pretend tea.

“Blorp! There you go! What blend is this? It's lovely.” I’m just repeating things I’d heard betters say over tea in the past.

“It’s unicorn jasmine.” She replies matter-of-factly, “I’m oh so glad you enjoy it.”

“Lovely,” I repeat, pretending to fill my own cup so that I can clink it against hers, “Miss, may I ask you a question?”

I wait for her nod, which comes with a not so polite elbow lean on the small table.

“What exactly is a tag name?” the question had been nagging at me since I heard my master bring it up.

“Oh, that's just something Nico likes to do. He gives his pets two names.” She looks almost disinterested, playing with her teacup by spinning it on the table like a top, “There's your name name, the one he’ll call you when you’re just alone with us. And then there's your tag name. That's what he’ll call you around guests and Papa.”

“But why go through all that trouble..?” I really don’t get it.

“Well, Rosie said it was to help her. She knew she was safe when we called her by the right name, she didn’t have to follow all of Papa’s rules then. Then when he needed to talk to her and there were not safe people around, he’d call her Rosalin, and she’d know to be good.”

I don’t let my surprise show on my face. It has occurred to me that this must be some sort of test, because what I’ve just heard sounds like pure and utter madness. Treating names like code? Code meant to let a pet know that they’re suddenly allowed to break rules? Something odd is going on in this house and I want no part of it.

The girl doesn’t comment on my silence. My question has soured her brief good mood. It might be a good idea to change subjects.

“Miss, have you ever played a game called ‘Dragon’ before?”

______________________________________________________________

After a bit of playing, it started to look more and more likely that Miss Marcey is the truly kind sort of child. The point of ‘Dragon’ is simple, just don’t get caught. If you do, you’ll be left at the dragon's mercy. In this game, for Marcey, that means getting picked up, spun around, thrown onto the soft mattress of her bed, and tickled mercilessly.

Like nearly every other child I’ve known, she adores it.

“Clover, again again-!”

My arms are beyond sore, but the way she all but screeches with laughter gives me the strength to start spinning her around one more time.

Then the door is thrown open.

Instinctively, I pull Marcey to my chest, trying to shield her from whoever has caught us. In the moment my new master stands in the doorway staring at us, she is a different child entirely. A child with lop ears who’s training would be ruined if they were allowed a moment to laugh.

My fear is mirrored back at me in my master’s eyes. But this is a master who is good at lying. I don’t trust it.

It's Marcey who breaks the odd silence with a laugh.

“Nico!! You have to save me from the dragon!!”

A confused grin quirks his lips as he enters the room and pulls the door shut behind him.

“Oh no, a mighty dragon? Fear not, fair princess! I am a knight, here to rescue you!”

He approaches slowly, with a gentle smile that I belatedly realize is for my benefit. Neither I nor Marcey are going to be punished for playing, not tonight. It seems instead that our game will gain another player.

When he gets close, I drop low to the ground with a helplessly goofy look pulling at my face.

“I will not be so easily defeated, puny knight!”

Even though that turns out to be a lie, the following minutes were surprisingly fun. I dodge his first few lunges, jump up onto the table to hold Marcey out of his reach, but I was already pretty tired from playing so much with her before. It's not long before I yield dramatically and let my master relieve my sore arms of his sister.

“Were you guys having fun? I’m sorry I just barged in, I thought… “ My master doesn’t finish his sentence, and Marcey is too preoccupied with a fit of giggles to have even heard him. It's only when he looks at me with such casual expectation that I realize he was talking to me.

I don’t answer. I can’t. And he frowns. The world seems to be righting itself again. For a moment I almost believed this caring, joyful big brother and my master were the same person, that he was really as lenient as Marcey was saying. But this was a trick, he’s just annoyed that I didn’t fall for it.

Master sits on the little, surprisingly sturdy, tea table with Marcey and takes out a silver pocket watch. Intrigued by the shine and the ornate design on it, I creep behind the two of them to get a better look without drawing too much attention. It looks expensive. Not that that’s too surprising, my new master fits a rich brat archetype pretty well.

“Now that I’ve saved you, princess. Perhaps you might be about to help me with a riddle. Pray tell, what number is the short hand pointing to?”

Marcey groans dramatically but plays along with him.

“.... eight.”

“And what's the long hand pointing to?”

“Six.”

“So what time is it?”

“Oh, Nico! I don’t want to go to bed!”

“It’s eight thirty, and that means princesses need to get ready to sleep.”

He shoos her off his lap with a fond smile. I don’t doubt Marcey is tired after such an active game, I know I am.

“Nico, can you and Clover stay with me tonight? Read a story with me?” There's no need for her to look at me so pleadingly, I’m already happy to do whatever she asks of me.

“Not tonight, Marcey,” my master says, because clearly he is heartless, “Its Clovers first night. It’s important that he has a bit of space.”

Marcey relents, but I don’t really understand. Why would he want to give me ‘space’...? It sounds like he just wants to keep me away from her while they’re both vulnerable.

Now that I think about it, that really might be for the best. I have no idea what my dreams hold for me tonight, nor how I’ll act when I’m woken from them. If I’m to lose myself and attack anyone- I’d prefer it to be the man who now owns me.

“Soon, Marcey, I promise. I won’t go home without at least one night of stories.” My master makes a crossing motion over his chest, which somehow makes Marcey believe him, “Come on Clover. Let's go back to our room.”

He leads the way, and doesn’t seem to mind that I lag behind in order to return the girls disappointed wave.

There's no talking as we walk. I don’t look at him and I don’t think he looks at me, not much. The hall is silent apart from our footsteps, muffled by the nice looking carpet under our shoes.

I half hope that he’ll have me sleep outside his room. From what I saw, there's no room for me to lay in his closet. The soft hall carpet would be much easier to sleep on than the bathroom's cold tile floor.

But he holds the bedroom door open, looking me over with a frown when I hesitate before following him in.

“Clover? Is something wrong?”

“No,” I have to be good, “No sir.”

“Alright…” he shuts and locks the door. Not to keep me in, given that he knows I know how door locks work, but what would he be keeping out..? “I’m going to get changed. Just take it easy for a second, okay?”

I don’t give an answer, but he doesn’t seem to have been looking for one. He goes into the bathroom with a change of clothes and leaves me to my own devices.

Having no idea what ‘taking it easy’ entails, I stay standing right where I was. My hands go to my hair to see if I can blindly untie any of the things Marcey put in my hair. It ends up being much harder than I’d anticipated. I’m visibly frustrated and sick of pulling out my own hair by the time my master reemerges, now dressed for bed.

“Oh dear,” he has the gall to laugh at me, halfheartedly trying to hide it behind one hand. “Can I help you?”

He passes me first, opening the top drawer of his desk to take out a comb and a pair of scissors. When he sees that I’m far from eager about him using either of those things on my head he practically rushes to soothe me.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise. The scissors are more for the ribbon than your hair, Marcey’s great at tying impossible knots.”

That, I have to believe considering the marble sized wads of ribbon tied throughout my hair like sprinkles on a cupcake.

He sits in the desk chair and I sit on the floor in front of him, leaning forward to let him fuss with the knots. True to his word, he is gentle. Never pulling too hard and being extra careful as he works near my ears. I can’t help relaxing into his touch.

If there was ever a good time to try and endear myself to this master, I suppose this was it. He’s already basically petting me. Even if it's being done through proxy of the brush. My movement forward is more clumsy than cute as I bash my cheek into his knee.

The brush stops moving. I’m trying to be good, but I know I’m glaring up at him. There is nothing cute or even appealing about me like this. I know it, and my hands shake.

“Clover..? You alright..?”

His hand runs softly through my hair, pulling it out of my eyes. I open my mouth, either to bite him or respond, it's unclear who the victor will be in tonight's battle between my instincts and my training.

His hand catches on something tangled in my hair, it comes loose as he pulls away, bouncing off my shoulder before hitting the floor with a soft sound.

I watch his eyes follow it down then widen in utter terror. In a blink he’s pulled away from me entirely and crowded himself on top of the desk next to us. His legs pulled to his chest and a hand over his mouth to hold back his scream.

On the floor in front of me is a small, grey brown spider. Already dead. Who knows how and when it ended up in my hair. The dim, dingy shelter? Any swath of forest I braved a night in?

From the way my master is acting, you’d expect the thing to be spitting venom. Or at the very least moving. Feeling slightly sadistic, I lift the dead arachnid by one curled in leg and dangle it in my master's general direction. To my delight the reaction is immediate.

“Clover, no-!” his voice has raised at least three octaves, “Throw it away!”

Frantically, he points me towards the waste basket near the door. I get halfway there before pausing.

“.. Master, may I open the window?”

“Do whatever you want, just get it out of here..!!”

I go to the window the pet bed sits under and easily nudge it open. The room is two or three stories up, but given the spider is already dead I don’t feel too bad for tossing it out. It’s less conflicting to allow it to return to nature in one form instead of putting it with the garbage like my master wanted me too.

“Clover…”

Oh. Right. I threatened him. Is he going to try and kill me now?

Less afraid than I probably should be, I look back at my master over one shoulder. He’s a wreck with a sweaty brow and wobbly knees.

“Clover, that was just… Never do that to me again.”

“Do what master?” I ask, using the same sort of sweet tone I was using with his sister earlier. Even I don’t know if my intention is to goad him into ending me, or if I’m honestly attempting to play dumb.

“Don’t- don’t torture me with spiders! Ever! That was cruel!”

If this sort of situation had ever happened with my last master, with me being so obviously and purposefully in the wrong, I would have been terrified. Now, looking at a man who has a shockingly long list of things he could kill me for, I just feel empty.

“I’m sorry master. Please correct my actions so that I may serve you better.”

I wonder, if you’ve beaten the hell out of someone, can you also beat it back in?

Despite the emptiness, I still flinch as this master reaches past me and tugs the window closed again. He sighs softly as he flicks the latch back into place.

“Your punishment will be another bath before bed. Your head isn’t touching any pillows until I’m certain you’re bug free. Come on, I should have done this earlier.”

He leads me to the bathroom with a hand on my shoulder, just as deceptively gentle as it was when he was brushing my hair. He’s an asshole, I can’t trust him. Most pets would think two baths in their master's bathroom on the same day to be some great reward. Surely there's going to be some cruel twist.

I’m left by the door, master fills the bathtub and pokes through his collection of potions. He takes out a tiny corked bottle and dumps all of its contents into the bath, stirring it in with his arm and causing bubbles to form in the water.

“This’ll take care of mites, fleas, ticks… pretty much anything. Have you been itchy lately? Anything like that?”

“Um, no..?” I can’t help but think that's an odd question to start a punishment with.

“It’s just a precaution then. It won’t hurt you.”

He looks me over, gaze lingering on the clothes I’m reluctant to part with.

“You can leave the shorts on if you want. Nothing in the water will ruin them. I’ll get you something more comfortable to wear to bed anyway.”

That also seems lenient… but I’m not about to question him directly. I remove the clothes with care, even the socks, in the hope that I might get them back eventually.

Master lets me sink into the warm water still wearing the shorts, just as he said he would. He doesn’t seem angry anymore, taking care to watch my ears and warning me to close my eyes before dumping a handful of bath water onto my hair.

“What’s the trick?” I dare to ask.

“What are you talking about?” his tone is a mockery of mine from earlier.

“This isn’t a punishment. You’re trying not to get soap in my eyes.”

“So, if I got soap in your eyes, that would be a suitable punishment?”

I scowl. He actually looks pretty pleased.

“It’s kind of a punishment. I know you don’t like the fact I’m doing this.” he picks two bottles of soap from a nearby shelf and holds them out for me to sniff, “Choose one.”

I choose one that smells light and sweet.

“Lemongrass. Good choice.”

At his request, I close my eyes as he washes my hair. Since I mentioned it, it’s like he’s avoiding getting anything in my eyes at all, probably out of spite.

“You know,” he starts casually, out of nowhere, “there’s this old myth that looking at a rabbit's two front teeth will tell you how old they are.”

“... Is it true?” I have to ask.

“Not at all. Especially not for rabbits like you.” I flinch back at a sudden light tap on my nose, but keep my eyes shut, “Teeth come mostly from genetics, and can be affected by an individual’s environment. A young rabbit with bad genetics in bad places can have awful looking teeth. An old rabbit with good genetics can still have perfect teeth. You just can’t count on it.”

“Do you think that's why my teeth were pulled out?”

“Was it not? Do you want to tell me what really happened?”

No. I don’t.

“... There is a better way to determine age.” he continues, “It's a human trick for sure, and it’ll work on you too.”

A few more dumped handfuls of water and my hair is rinsed. A soft towel suddenly starts patting my face, drying my eyes.

“Can you look at me please?”

I have no reason to disobey him. My eyes meet his, a towel covered hand keeping my chin tilted up.

“The limbal ring is a dark line around the iris. You see it most in lighter eyes, like yours. When you’re born it's nearly black, and it fades away as you get old, normally starting in your early twenties… I’m pretty sure yours is just starting to fade.”

The intense way he’s studying me makes me uncomfortable. When I don’t say anything in reply, he backs off, holding up the towel for me as I get out of the tub. I get the sweater back. And a softer pair of shorts with an elastic waistband. I try not to look at him.

“Are you tired?”

I nod.

“Lets get some sleep then.”

I follow him out into the bedroom, my gaze lingering on the bed under the window.

“You’re not sleeping there.” I wasn’t expecting to, I’ve been nothing but terribly behaved, but the sharp tone he uses catches me off guard.

Master takes one pillow off of his bed and the top quilt, and tosses them on the floor.

“Okay,” he says, pulling back the remaining blanket and patting the mattress, “Come here, lay down.”

“... What?”

“I’m not letting you sleep in Rosie's bed. There’s no way you’d willingly lay in bed next to me, or at the foot of the bed. And I’m pretty sure that you might try to smother me if I make you sleep on the floor. So, you get my bed.”

He seems so serious, that I have no idea how to refuse him. I can’t even say he’d be wrong about the smothering. I might not do it, but I’d probably think pretty hard about it.

The bed is softer than any I’ve been on briefly in the past. There's two pillows behind my head, a comfortably plush blanket tucked around me. Exhaustion hits me, not allowing me to reject any of these luxuries. I’ve spent the past weeks fighting for my life. This is the first time I’ve rested comfortably since.

“Wait are you… are you sure..?” I instantly regret asking, but it's all too odd for me to simply accept.

My master, settled on the floor, just reaches up and turns out the lamp on the bedside table.

“Goodnight Clover.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quote from my bf: "I feel like Clover would be the type to eat a deep fried tarantula on a stick, not because he genuinely wants to but because it would make everyone around him cry."


	6. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico tries to make things right. The boys reach an understanding and survive breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is late huh? Sorry about that. I planned out the rest of this part of the story and then got excited about a part I can't write yet. Thus is the woes of ADHD.  
> I've also gone through and fixed the tags and the ratings. Please let me know if you think anything else should be tagged.
> 
> TW for discussion of drugging, arachnophobia, and funfacts about a fantasy spider I made up.

I dream of clover, the plant. An entire field of it. I’m on my hands and knees searching frantically for four leaves while Rosie sits on a nearby rock. Watching me, her antenna twitching in the way they used to whenever she wasn’t able to freely tell me how much of an idiot I am. 

I wake up to Clover, the person, rolling off of the bed in his sleep and landing right on a top of me. 

Hazy rays of early dawn and the first sun rising are filtering in through the window, letting me see the state my pet is in. He’s still asleep, I think. But his body is rigid, occasionally jerking. He’s also drooling on my shoulder.   
  
“Must be some dream you’re having, buddy,” I mutter, pushing myself into a sitting position despite my back's protests. It's hard to move him with me, he’s tense to the point of stiffness. He feels so fragile against me that I’m afraid one wrong, jerky movement might break a limb.   
  
“Clover, hey, hey, wake up.” It's like he doesn’t hear me. I’m reminded of something he said yesterday, right after we met. I asked if he was ignoring me or if something was wrong. He’d said ‘both’. 

But maybe I’m reading too deeply into things. He might have just been saying that. It’s probably just a bad dream. Night terrors can look like this, right? 

It only goes on for one or two minutes after he falls off the bed. I hold him through it, gently, just trying to keep him from hitting his head on the bedposts or the nightstand. When it's over he’s entirely limp against me, not with it enough to growl at me for petting his hair.

I figure it's best to lay him back on the bed. He’d probably freak out if he woke up to me holding him like this, and I doubt he’d believe me if I told him he fell. He seems convinced that I’m out to hurt him. I haven’t exactly done the best job of convincing him otherwise.   
  
Once Clover is settled back on the mattress and doesn’t show signs of throwing himself off again, I go out into the hall and find a servant. Given the earlier hour and my old late night habits, it shouldn’t raise too much suspicion for me to have breakfast brought to my room now and still eat something at the table with Marcey and our father in a couple hours. 

Things were so hectic last night, I never had time to make sure he was slipped anything more than the platter of crackers and vegetables. He obviously malnourished. I’ll probably try to start him on some dietary supplements after we’re safe at my house. 

He’ll have to survive the party first though. Hell, he’ll have to survive breakfast with my father  _ today.  _ It's probably a good thing he woke me up so early. It gives us more time to prepare.   
  
I decide to let Clover sleep until his breakfast is ready. In the meantime I try to be quiet as I get myself ready to face the day, combing my bedhead into place, picking out an outfit for him that will compliment my favorite waistcoat. Clover is already adorable, if he can just keep his mouth shut and his head down for an hour or two I’ll be able to get us out of the house with an excuse of needing to go shopping.   
  
He needs a collar, an engraved tag, proper clothes for the party… Should I try to bring him by the clinic too..? Injures and such I can handle by myself just fine. But there are tests I need to run that I just don’t have the equipment for in my childhood room. Maybe it should wait until we leave the city.    
  
By the time Clovers breakfast has arrived, I’ve sufficiently sorted myself into a proper human being. I’d asked for oatmeal with fresh fruit and cream along with tea and hot chocolate. Back when I was still in school, I often asked for stranger, more elaborate things at even earlier hours. The cook probably considered this request awfully tame. 

  
I take the tray at the door with a smile and a word of thanks, then make sure my door is shut firmly before trying to rouse Clover.   
  
“How about some food, buddy? Are you hungry?”   
  
The only response I get is a flick of his ear, but that's far more than I was getting out of him earlier. The tray goes on the desk, and I crouch at his side to lightly shake his shoulder.   
  
“Hey Clover, rise and shine..”   
  
He finally pries his eyes open, but there's nothing but bleary confusion in them. His hands are oddly clumsy as he paws at my wrist. Needless to say, I’m immediately concerned.    
  
“Hey there..” I’m bringing out my best bedside manner, soothing tone and touch used to do me well during examinations, I would hope it’d help him too. “You feeling okay..? It looked like you had a nightmare.”   
  
He gives me a look, wide, teary eyes, that just about breaks my heart.   
  
“My head hurts..” his whisper is pitifully pained. If we were on friendly terms at all I would give in to my desire to be affectionate towards him. If his head hurts, he might be dehydrated. Coddling him wouldn’t fix that. The hot chocolate is for him but the sugar might contribute to his headache...   
  
“Wait right here, I’ll get you a glass of water.”   
  
There's a tremble at the corner of his mouth, something almost a smile. I’m so excited by it that I practically trip over my own feet rushing to the bathroom to fill a cup with cold water. This could be huge progress. We might actually stand a chance of getting through this.   
  
When I come back with the water, Clover has burrowed under the blankets. Now less confused and more suspicious.    
  
“Here, it's for you. The food is too. Would you like some?”   
  
“Do you think I’m that stupid?”   
  
It's hard to look threatening when all that's visible of you is an adorable set of bunny ears and two big round eyes, but Clover sure is trying.   
  
“You don’t trust me, huh?” I sigh.   
  
“No shit.”   
  
“Well, is there anything I can do to get you to trust me? Preferably before your breakfast gets cold?”   
  
I set the water down on the bedside table, doing my best to keep from sounding too sarcastic. It’s so hard not to throw his bitter tone back at him.   
  
For several minutes, we just stare at each other. Him trying to burn a hold through my forehead with the force of his glare and me getting progressively more frustrated.   
  
“Look, you slept in my bed, I got you breakfast- we got off to a rocky start yesterday but I thought we had a good time playing with Marcey together. Doesn’t any of that count for something? What else is it going to take..?”   
  
Clover pulls the blanket up until only his ears are sticking out, likely listening for any sudden movements on my part.   
  
“God, I can’t believe this..” I do have one idea, but man is it a stupid one, “Okay. Alright. Just a second.”   
  
I go back to the sink, digging through the cabinet under it until I find the two potions I mixed to give to Clover yesterday. One is a simple healing draught, the other… Is mostly empty, it won’t be too great a waste if this doesn’t actually work.   
  


‘ _ Who cares about waste,’  _ I can hear Rosies voice from the back of my mind, ‘ _ You owe this to him. It’s the very least you could do.’ _

  
“Here’s my offer, Clover,” I check my pocket watch as I come back to his side, we have two hours before we need to be downstairs.

  
“This is a potion of loquaciousness. It tends to… uh… loosen someone's tongue.”   
  
He pokes out from his hiding place to hiss at me.   
  
“So it’s what you used to drug me yesterday?”   
  
Ugh.   
  
“... When mixed with a basic healing draught, it tends to accelerate the effects while still enacting its regular purpose, though for a shorter duration of time…”   
  
“If you think using complicated words are going to scare me off, you’ve got another thing coming ‘buddy’. I see right through you. Get to the point.”   
  
I’ve caught his attention at least. I think that's the most he’s ever said to me at once.   
  
“Well, there's enough left here to last about thirty minutes on me. Would you feel more.. Comfortable if we sort of..” I do a dumb thing with my hands, I’m nervous, I can’t help it, “Even things out a bit..?”   
  
Clover sits up completely, casting the blanket aside. He makes a show of humming over my offer, slowly crossing his legs to rest his elbows on.   
  
“Soooo, you’re going to drug yourself, and then you’ll have to answer any questions I ask for an entire half hour?”   
  


A sadistic glint catches in his eye, not unlike the grin he had on yesterday while torturing me with that spider.   
  
“It's a potion, not a drug,” I grumble, “But yes, basically. It’s not a truth serum, but I’ll be compelled to say the first thing that comes to mind.”   
  
He’s quiet again, I assume it's because he’s trying to think of the right questions. Because it’d be a real dick move to start the timer before he’s ready, I just stand there holding the bottle.

  
“Why are you scared of spiders?” he finally decides, giving me an apprehensive glare. Starting with such a clearly touchy subject feels like a challenge. As if he thinks he can piss me off into revoking my apology and proving myself to be the monster he clearly thinks I am.

Or maybe I’m reading too much into things.

“I haven’t drank it yet-”   
  
“Well hurry up!! I wanna know!

  
At his urging, I down the last dregs of the potion. Pickled newt and blue moss, all sour and oddly meaty. Certainly not one of my favorites on merit of taste alone.   
  
“Ask me again,” I quietly request, I can’t help but feel defeated as I drag the desk chair next to the bed so I can sit facing Clover.

  
“Why are you scared of spiders??” He demands, now a bit more curious instead of goading.   
  
“The Jade Anklet Spider has venom capable of melting most metals on contact. It sprays this venom at its prey or at potential predators and waits until they’re the consistency of your oatmeal before eating them.”   
  
Clover mouths the word ‘oatmeal?’ to himself then notices the tray carrying his breakfast. His next question is asked through a mouthful of his half chewed food.   
  
“So? You get attacked or somethin’?”   
  
“Chew with your mouth closed, please..?”   
  
Naturally this causes him to open his mouth wider. He takes joy in seeing me gag.   
  
“Ugh.. No. I wasn’t attacked, I read about them in a book.”   
  
“That's it?”   
  
“That's it.”   
  
“Huh…” he chews thoughtfully for a moment, “Then what's the deal with that?”   
  
He points at Rosie’s bed and not even the potion allows me to form any words right away. Grief acts as a dull static in my mind, blaring to drown out any thoughts at all whenever its agitated.    
  
“Rose’s bed.” I mumble eventually, because I have to.   
  
“Yeah, I figured. But why are you so weird about it? I slept in your bed while you slept on the floor, usually it's the other way around ‘master’.” He’s not bothering to hide the fact he’s studying me. Watching my reaction to everything he says and what I don’t say.   
  
“I know,” I offer him a tight smile, “It must seem weird to you but I just... I’m not ready to.. To…”   
  
“... Replace her?” His voice suddenly lacks its previous sarcasm. If anything it sounds like he’s trying to be gentle.    
  
I level a glare at him.   
  
“She can’t be replaced. You can’t replace her.”   
  
He shrinks back, and I’m too mad to be sorry. Rosie was perfect in every way, on every front. She was smart, witty, adaptable. Whatever a situation called for, she could handle it. She was the perfect submissive pet in front of my father, the life of the party for guests, and my very best friend whenever we finally managed to escape from it all.    
  
“Your best friend?”   
  
I hadn’t realized I’d been speaking out loud, nor do I know how much Clover had heard. Our eyes meet, and he draws closer to me, perching on the edge of the bed.   
  
“What's that like?”   
  
“Uh, having friends?”    
  
He gives a noncommittal shrug.    
  
“Sure, that too. How do you make friends?”   
  
“Geez, Clover, I’m not the best person to ask.. I mean, I’ve had maybe three actual friends ever..” He raises an eyebrow in a silent ‘and??’, “Uh.. there was a boy I met at a party ages ago. We got along okay… I guess having friends is like, having people that are easy to talk to? Words just come easier, and you want to try and make them laugh not because of politics or status but because… well… it's nice seeing them happy..?”   
  
Its a weak answer in my mind, but Clover seems fascinated.   
  
“And you felt like that about a pet?” he’s dropped into a conspiratorial whisper.   
  
“There was a lot going on back then. When I got her, we’d just lost my mother, Marcey was a baby, my father buried himself in business… I was a wreck and Rosie just.. Kept me sane.”   
  
“Must have been pretty well behaved..”   
  
I snicker at that.   
  
“Absolutely not. Certainly not in the beginning. She was a cockroach and they’re a bit notorious for their willfulness. But they’re tough. More common as familiars than pets, my father thought that if I started off trying to train the untrainable.. I don’t know. It was ignorant of him. I know that now..”   
  
Clover doesn’t seem to have made much sense of my rambling.   
  
“Untrainable..? I thought you said she was good.”   
  
“She was the best. But that came after we made a deal.”   
  
“What sort of deal..?”   
  
“The same sort I want to make with you,” I sigh, “In public, in front of my father especially, we pretend you’re perfectly trained. Then once we get away from everyone, I make it up to you.”   
  


Clover stares at me as if I'm in the middle of growing a second head.   
  
“What do you mean..?”   
  
“Rosie often asked for food, good clothes, her bed, naturally-”   
  
“No, no, how would you pretend I’m trained if you haven’t trained me? How am I supposed to know what you want from me?”   
  
Clover isn’t as frightened as I expected him to be. But his concerns are understandable.   
  
“We’re going to plan out everything we can beforehand. And if we’re ever out in public and you’re unsure about something, you can stay close to me and I’ll handle it.” it's a good sign that clover starts nodding along, I’m hopeful that he can see that my plan does work, “The trick is, Clover, that we’re going to have to learn how to get along. You’re going to need to trust me, and I’ll need to be able to trust you too.”   
  
I know that this will be far from easy for him. I have no idea what sort of life he came from apart from the fact that his last owner died, and that Clover wasn’t exactly fond of him.    
  
“If I’m good… You’ll treat me like a friend..?”

“As long as that's what you want. But there are some rules I can’t let you break for the sake of your own safety. For instance, you can’t leave this room alone. My father’s dogs really don’t like strangers… That means you can’t try to run from me. In return I’ll do my best to make it so that you don’t feel like you have to run..”   
  


My father has probably trained thousands of pets over the years, but he’s only ever kept dogs for himself. They’re not really regular service pets, more just security details. My father has crushed them so completely they really only understand one command, and it isn’t ‘sit’.   
  
I don’t care how hard Clover can bite, they’d tear him limb from limb without hesitation.    
  


* * *

  
  
The rest of the time until breakfast is spent making plans. I discuss with Clover what things he really can’t make himself sit quietly though and learn that doesn’t take well to being verbally insulted, but he claims he is perfectly capable of withstanding ‘physical correction’. That's not really a possibility I want to think about.   
  
Rosie had been the opposite. She was young when I got her, and hated pain more than anything. We’d gotten good at dramatic scenes where she’d break into fake tears and I’d lecture her and promise proper punishment away from prying eyes. It might be a good thing Clover can’t keep from growling while being lectured, my father likely wouldn’t fall for the same play twice.   
  
Clover and I are the last to arrive at the breakfast table. Marcey is ecstatic to see him, beckoning for him to go and sit at her feet instead of mine. I keep from saying anything, just subtly pointing at the floor next to me in a way my father can’t see from across the table. This is our first test as a team, if Clover chooses to go against me I can keep my mouth shut and nobody will have to know he’s deliberately disobeying me.   
  
It doesn’t come to that. Clover doesn’t stray from my side, and has knelt exactly where I directed without a second thought. I’m able to relax ever so slightly more. My father can’t see him from this angle, and thus will have less to comment on.   
  
“I still don’t understand why you’d show interest in something so pathetic.” My father mutters, knife clicking against porcelain as he jabs at his breakfast.   
  
“I think the type looks sweet. I don’t plan on relying on my pets for intimidation.” I reply with my most charismatic ‘lets make a deal’ smile.    
  
Marcey is uncomfortable, picking at her own breakfast in hopes that she’ll be kept out of the conversation.   
  
“Besides,” I continue, “Clovis is a gift from my favorite sister. I’ve been raised to cherish my gifts.”   
  
My father resigns to an angry grumble, meaning the conversation is over before it’s had a chance to begin. A servant takes advantage of the lapse of awkward silence and rushing in from the kitchens to hand me a letter. The contents of which I think would be a good conversation starter.   
  
“Father, do you remember last night when I was telling you about the breeder I’d been planning to visit?”   
  
“Yes, the dead one who’s auction you were going to turn into fodder for your next disaster of a novel, I remember.”   
  
Marcey drops her fork.   
  
“Oh, Nico..! Please don’t write another book!!”   
  
I try very hard to keep my annoyance from showing through. So glad my family is supportive of my endeavors.   
  
“Neither of you have to worry. The auctions have been cancelled. Apparently something about his death hints to foul play, Anvi’s think one of his pets might have done it.”   
  
Just as I’d hoped, this news catches my father's interest. He starts going off about the importance of proper training and instilling fear, insisting that it’s far better I never ended up with any of the dead man's possibly dangerous stock.    
  
Then I notice Clover going rigid next to me, his ears flattened back against his head, his already fair complexion going a ghostly pale. I worry he might faint. At first I assume he’s just frightened by the possibility of doing something so against the most basic part of any pets training, but there is a shift in his eyes that has me wonder if that isn’t actually the case.   
  
It's possible I’ve ended up with a dead man's pet after all.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the wonderful comments on this story, and sorry if I don't respond to every one. I do read and appreciate them all.


	7. Adjustments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I recently bought a bathrobe so you can imagine how hectic my life has been.
> 
> This chapter is an odd one, I'm not really sure if it works. Its made up of mostly stand alone segments from Clover's point of view that give a vague timeline of him figuring out the exact type of bullshit he's been roped into.
> 
> Some angst but in my opinion its mostly fluffy. Hope you enjoy!!

I’d already figured this master was an idiot, but it was worse than that. He thought I was an idiot too. 

I have to give him credit though, he is a  _ very  _ good liar. All his talk about pretending, about paying me back for being well behaved, I’ve never heard of anything so blatantly ridiculous. And yet I’m still left wanting to believe it. 

The safe thing to do was pretend. I’d been trying to pretend already. I would have had to pretend anyway when he brought me with him to breakfast with his gnarled old man of a father. I’d expected him to drop the act that had come with his sob story. It’d seemed like it for a moment when we’d first reached the grand dining room and he’d hardly bothered to order me next to him. I’d bet he wasn’t expecting me to pick up his subtle command of motioning at the floor next to his chair. I was expecting him to take any excuse he could to beat some sense into me. 

But when I first broke character at the mere mention of my previous master, his hand didn’t come down to sharply put me back in line. 

Instead he’d gently tugged at the sleeve of my borrowed shirt. Then guided my head to rest lightly against his knee. He stroked my hair and silently reminded me to breathe, grounding me as his father ranted and raved about how disgusting my kin and I were, and all the things he’d do to us to ensure we behaved.

Even I had to admit some of his ideas were creative. If this man had been the one to raise me I wouldn’t have the ability to even think about going against him. I’d be as empty behind the eyes as the guard dog that came in and bowed at the old man's feet. That might’ve not been so bad though, the dog had a purpose here, and clothes that hid the evidence of whatever it had taken to make him like this.   
  
“Bah! What is it mutt?”   
  
From my place on the floor, with my head still pressed to my own masters knee, I couldn’t see the old man's face. But I could see the way he used his cane to push the boy's head down so he had to mumble into the cold floor.   
  
“The young master’s carriage is ready, sir.”   
  
“That's our cue, come on Clovis. Thanks for breakfast, father.”   
  
My master all but shot to his feet, urging me up to follow him out. I could feel master senior’s eyes on my back as master junior dragged me out of the dining room and out of the house.

\----   
  
I expected to be bombarded with questions about my actions as soon as the two of us were alone in the carriage. However, my master was only concerned about my health. He urged me to lay on the bench across from him in the carriage, claiming that I still looked like I was ready to faint. I didn’t bother fighting him on it. At least being horizontal eased my dizziness by the time we reached our apparent destination.   
  
The idiot babbled his list of things to buy as we rode. A collar was also something I expected, and loathed the idea of. He’s well aware of my tendencies, it would be in his best interest to fix me with something permanent and painful.    
  
The only thing that actually ends up being painful about his choice of collar is how  _ boring  _ it is. He holds the thin strip of simple black leather up to my neck with the most infuriatingly pleased smile.   
  
“What do you think of this one, Clover?”   
  
“I think it’s horrid,” The flabbergasted look on the attendants face makes me realize I’ve spoken out loud, “... Sir.”   
  


Surely I’m broken beyond all repair, being unable to hold my tongue isn’t even in the top three worst things I’ve done.   
  


My master only laughs and ruffles my hair, as if my backtalk was exactly what he wanted to hear from me. As if he isn’t remotely considering how much it would cost to have me put down quietly and quickly.    
  
“What's so horrid about it? It’s light, sturdy, plus black goes with everything.”   
  
“Of course, master, my mistake.” I manage with gritted teeth and a bowed head.   
  
He leaves to force his false cheer on the attendant instead, talking about how he hates it when collar tags jingle so he’d prefer for the tag to be attached directly to the leather. I think it's a strange request, but the attendant seems happy to accommodate him, using it as a chance to show off all the alterations she can do to drive up a potential sale.    
  
“Clover, Clover come here and try this on its perfect!” My master is suddenly excited, and I don’t care to raise my eyes from the floor to see what he thinks is perfect.    
  
At least the leather he fastens around my neck isn’t uncomfortable. I was expecting plastic at best, or one of those metal ones that can’t be removed without the proper tools, but this collar is padded and lined with a silken soft fabric around the inside. Without thinking, I raise a hand to touch it, my finger bumping into protruding metal spikes that are too short and dull to cause any harm. My master holds a hand mirror up in front of me so I can admire the alternating silver spikes and jeweled studs that line the dark brown leather.   
  
“Sir that design is usually reserved for more imposing types, lions, bears, and the like. I really think your pet would look much better in something more in line with its natural features-” She waves over at a display case of more cutesy collars. Light colors, bows, shimmering rhinestones.

Those are the sort of collars I’m accustomed to. She’s right. Spikes don’t suit a rabbit.   
  
Oh.. But I like them. The me in the mirror hardly looks intimidating, but he also doesn’t look anything like a submissive little show pet.   
  
“I think it's hilarious,” My master grins, “We’ll take it and the black one please. Same tag on both.”   
  
Even though my master clearly intends this collar to be some sort of joke, I’m thrilled at the prospect of getting to wear it again at all. I don’t hide it well either, given the smug look my master gives me when he notices. 

  
  


That same smug look comes over him multiple times throughout the day as he takes me around shopping for clothes, shoes, and other various accessories. I can’t figure out what he’s gaining by buying anything that excites me or holds my attention for too long. It makes me nervous how eager he is to buy something just because I seem to like it. By mid afternoon there's half a dozen shopping bags in the back of the carriage all filled with things for me to wear and use. He even bought me makeup without making me utter a single word of please or thanks. It’s suspicious but this man didn’t even scold me for biting him, if he decides to start actually punishing me this selfishness will be the least of my crimes. 

Of course there’s no following punishment or lesson after our outing. The things he bought for me go in the closet and bathroom right alongside all of his belongings, and when they’re all put away he takes a moment to run a hand through my hair.   
  
“Thank you so much for behaving so well today,” he says, “When my father was running his mouth you didn’t even growl. I was struggling to stay quiet too-“

I try to remind myself that he’s a liar, that I behaved terribly out in public and made a fool of myself at breakfast. His praise is utterly meaningless. 

Even if it feels good.

———-

The first smart thing my idiot master does is actually test me. He brings me to a room with shelves of books against every wall and in rows towards the center of the room. On the back wall is a stone carved fireplace and two worn out reading chairs. 

He drills me on basic commands, sitting and waiting positions, the sort of things he’ll require of me in front of others. I’m not sure if I should be satisfied or offended by how obviously he’s surprised by how well I’ve been trained. My form is immaculate, always. And this masters directions aren’t aiming to trip me up, so it’s not like I’m going to make a mistake. When I’m aware I don’t fidget. I can hold any position for as long as I have to, still as a statue. A doll for display. Barely even thinking. It’s frightening how easily I fall back into such a lifeless mindset. My master seems frightened too, given how he switches from drilling me to trying to start a meaningless conversation. 

Eventually I settle on being offended and decide not to disclose to my master that I have other hidden talents. The man who raised me liked my voice and had me sing for him often. Learning lyrics paved the way to teaching myself how to read sheet music and some printed words. A skill that would become vital for my survival when I had mere minutes to learn a new song. 

I’m not eager to prove to this master I’m something other than a pretty face. Though I am lucky to have that mostly going for me to. The scars under my eye and up from my chin healed over fairly well, hardly noticeable in most light. So far he seems content having me as an accessory, which is likely the safest task to have while figuring out my next move.

  
\------   
  
The next several days give me better insight to my masters character, or at least his schedule. I want to hate him. I try so hard to, but any anger I have towards him fades more and more each time he tangles his fingers in my hair or sneaks me a treat off of his plate when he dines with the old man and Miss Marcey. 

Even without the treats I’ve eaten better in the handful of days I’ve spent in this masters care than ever before. He has servants bring a meal to the bedroom, or the library we spend our time in while he nervously counts down the days until his party.   
  
I don’t understand what he’s so afraid of. From what he’s told me it sounds like I’ll be the only one in danger. Aside from not roaming the manor without him, the only orders he’s given me all relate to the party.   
  
“I don’t care if you have to stare at the floor or shut your eyes altogether- you can’t keep trying to get away with those eyes like you do with me.” it was almost odd to hear him speak so firmly when it was just the two of us. No, even in front of his father his voice was just cold, not commanding.   
  
“Clover..! I’m being serious! Don’t roll your eyes at me..!”   
  
“I wasn’t-”   
  
He grabs my chin, not roughly but I still growl on instinct. It's the borderline desperate look in his eyes that makes me shut my mouth and listen.   
  
“They’ll kill you, Clover. If you give them a reason to- they’ll destroy you.” his voice breaks. I watch him blink back tears, “Say nothing, do nothing, understand? I’ll direct you, don’t follow anyones orders but mine. I swear I’ll protect you.”   
  
He’s swallowing back panic, looking more through me than at me. I’ve seen him like this a few times in the past few days, always after he’s come back from speaking alone with his father. His hands tremble, his breaths come in short and shaky. I’m somewhat grateful for this insanity of his, since it’s clearly what compels him to treat me so well.   
  
“I’ll only follow your orders… master.” The word is sour in my mouth. I may not hate this stupid, unstable master. But I do loathe the fact that I belong to a man that is too cowardly to even fight me for his bed back.   
  
The way he grimaces suggests that he doesn’t like the title either. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, to him. The most I’ve addressed him as is ‘sir’, and only in public. Alone I call him nothing and he’s never asked otherwise. So if he dislikes the title, it's his fault I’ve said it.

  
“Thank you… Thanks, Clover.” he lets me go, shoving his still shaking hands into his pockets, “It’s for the best. As soon as the party is over we’ll leave. Everything will be better once we’re home.”   
  
‘Home’ is something he speaks about as vaguely as he does about ‘Rosie’. All I’ve gathered is it’s far, even by carriage. Past the limits of the city. He’s eager to leave, and I would be too if there wasn’t something bothering me.   
  
“... Will Marcey come with us?”   
  


I haven’t spoken to the girl since my first day with this master, she’s surprisingly busy for someone so young. A steady stream of tutors come to the manor for her, teaching everything from numbers and letters to musical instruments. Some nights I see her head bobbing at dinner, nodding off even as her father and brother engage in verbal battle. 

“I can’t take care of her.” My master mutters as he sits in one of the library's stiff reading chairs, “My father would never let me take her away. And I couldn’t give her half the education he’s providing…”   
  
It’s not my place to interfere. The girl has a better life than that lop eared child she reminds me so much of. It’s not that she doesn’t have toys and games and permission to use them at her leisure. She just… doesn’t have the energy to play with them. Or anybody to play with, once her brother and I leave. 

Still, I imagine a life of stealing her away when I run, because I’ll have to run again eventually. I would take her with me. We’d find a place deep in the wilderness free of masters and fathers and men who blur that line. 

It’s a comforting thought, no matter how impossible it might be. I can’t steal away this little girl just like I couldn’t have done the same for the little ones I left behind last time. I’m no parent, I can’t nurture and care for a child.

I can’t even care for myself. 

—————-

The day before my master's dreaded birthday, he receives an early present. It's delivered to his bedroom by the hand of a servant who tells a great tale of having spotted it in one of the front yard topiaries. The package looks like it’s seen war, brown paper torn and muddied, frayed string wrapped around it already partially untied.   
  
My master's face lights up as soon as he sees it, thanking the maid a dozen times before opening the box up on his desk. There's a letter that he laughs at while reading it but what's most concerning is the horrendous looking mat he takes out of the box.   
  
It's a small rectangle of carpet that's purple, green, or constantly moving back and forth between the two. The pattern on it is utterly unfathomable and equally ugly, but my master spreads it on the floor as though it is the most valuable thing he’s ever laid eyes on.   
  
“Oh Clover, isn’t this wonderful? It’s a magic doormat!”   
  
I scoff at the amazement in his voice. “What's so magical about it?”   
  
He scrambles to skim the letter over again, humming thoughtfully.   
  
“Well, Ansel didn’t explicitly say- I assume it has something to do with the colors though. If there's anything more to it I’m sure we’ll find out sooner or later.”   
  
Still with his idiotic smile, he sits back down at the desk to compose a thank you letter right away, introducing the quill he pulls out of a desk drawer as ‘last years present’. Maybe it's not a very good quill, or there's something wrong with the ink, but each word my master puts to paper is a different color with some words vanishing as soon as they are written.   
  
“Who’s Ansel?”   
  
“He’s my best friend! Well, my other best friend- … sort of my only best friend.”   
  
I only have a minute to grumble about the muddled answers before the doormat flies across the room on its own accord, ricocheting off the wall into the bookshelf with enough force to leave the heavy wood wobbling. In the hour that it takes for the two of us to herd and trap it in the closet it has made a mess of everything in the room except the half written letter.   
  
We go to bed heavy with the knowledge we will have to face off the rug again in the morning to get out clothes, and that the desk chair shoved under the closet door knob might not be enough to keep it contained for long.

  
\-----------------   
  
I’m not normally one to dream. And when I do, they’re never really all that imaginative. My mind likes to replay memories I hate.   
  
In one memory in particular, I’m on a stage. I’m supposed to sing. But as the music swells I can’t find my voice. I miss my que, the crowd starts whispering. In the middle of the crowd is the man who raised me. His eyes promise pain and worse, but no matter what I do I can’t force my voice above a whisper.   
  
The edges of the dream are hazy and that's where my consciousness plasters itself to try and get actually restful sleep.    
  
When I’m next aware, my head aches and it takes longer than it should for me to realize I am on the floor. A pillow, my idiot masters pillow, is under my head. His quilt is balled up near the door. By the first sun’s light I can make out the form of my master buttoning up a different sleep shirt.   
  
He tiptoes back over to me, looking to still be half asleep himself. Though he seems mildly surprised when our eyes meet.   
  
“It’s okay, honey,” he murmurs, palm resting against my forehead then going to wipe away tears I didn’t know were there, “It’s okay. Everything’s all right now..”   
  
He picks me up so easily, tucking me back into the bed's soft nest of pillows and blankets.   
  
“I’m going to lay here, okay..? Just rest, we have a couple hours before we need to get ready for the party...”   
  
He takes his pillow and lays next to me, on top of the blankets, quickly dozing off. I’m left cocooned between him and the wall, trying to piece together what happened before sleep claims me again.

  
  


* * *


	8. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones gonna hurt a bit gang.  
> We got blue skies ahead! I promise! What, you think I'm the type of author to come out of nowhere after weeks of inactivity with a chapter full of hurt (and a lil bit of a cliff hanger) and have it all be for nothing?? Hahaha haha ha.... ha.
> 
> I forgot to put this here when first uploading- Big thank you to LurkingFisher and Sekiraku for reading an earlier version of this chapter and giving me some much appreciated feedback when I was totally stuck! They're both super awesome, check out their cool works.
> 
> Seriously though this chapter has some pretty heavy insinuations. Written descriptions of a panic attack and some implied violence towards the very end. If you want something tagged please let me know, I'm pretty awful with tags.

“I am so very sorry for intruding, young master Nicolai- I had thought you’d be awake by now.”  
  
The bedroom door opening had stirred me, but I didn’t truly wake up until the servant bringing in our breakfast began her frantic apologies.   
  
“Thickets and thorns, how late is it?” I croak, blearily realizing that I’d been asleep on the bed with Clover tucked in beside me. Somehow he seems wide awake already.  
  
“You missed breakfast, sir. And tea with your father. It was terribly presumptuous for me to assume you might wish to eat something before the festivities begin. We’d assumed you were simply taking the morning to calm your nerves.”  
  
The ‘we’ she speaks of means the kitchen staff- not my father. Maybe my sister too but I dearly hope not. Our family has never been particularly social, she’ll be stressed enough from the crowd without having to worry about her afflicted older brother.  
  
“Nel, you are my savior,” I say sincerely, “I’ll be down right away to deal with my father. Thank you so much.”  
  
“Of course sir, do you require anything else?”  
  
“If you don’t mind terribly, could you bring that quilt down to the laundry? I did what I could for it in the sink but I’m afraid it might be beyond repair…”  
  
I get out of bed with Clover at my heels, which seems to confuse the servant for some reason.  
  
“Of course… Young master, are you feeling alright..? Would you like me to set up an appointment with the family physician?”  
  
Its then that I realize not only am I wearing mismatched nightclothes, but apart from my desk and the space I cleared to sleep on the floor- my room is still a disaster from the rug attack, the closet door is still barricaded shut, and the most logical explanation- apart from me having finally lost my mind- is made impossible due to the fact Clover is being the most perfect little pet right next to me instead of being whatever I locked in my closet.  
  
Most could be explained by me just telling her about the enchanted, possibly minorly homicidal doormat Ansel sent me for my birthday, but I’m already spiralling and the kitchen staff love to gossip with the pair who do the laundry and of course those two tell the cleaning staff everything and the cleaning staff are often in the same room as my father which means he could very well overhear that I have a magic rug and he’ll ask me where I got it and I’ll have to tell him from Ansel and then he’ll know I’m still in contact with Ansel and by extent some of Ansel’s family even though I _said_ I wasn’t and-  
  
“Oh, no. I’m fine. Just a long night.”  
  
The servant is clearly not convinced but she doesn’t press me further, just sets the tray of food she brought on my desk and leaves with the balled up quilt.  
  
I nearly jump out of my skin when Clover places a surprisingly gentle hand on my wrist to give me a sort of awkward but overwhelmingly sweet couple of ‘there there’ pats. Under any other circumstance I wouldn’t mind him touching me, but I’m so caught up in my spiral that’s its all I can do to bite my tongue and keep from crying out. 

Clover's lilac grey eyes watch me try, and fail, to settle myself, tracking my movements so carefully that I just know he’s waiting for me to lash out. It kills me to know that there’s nothing between us, that if I’d managed to do anything to gain even a little bit of his trust then I’d ruined it just now with my damned nerves. 

“... you need to pull yourself together.”

It’s Clover's voice, but because those words have been said to me a thousand times before by someone far dearer, I can’t help but laugh. 

And then cry. 

Because he’s not Rosie. I know he’s not Rosie. Even if he doesn’t fear me, he can’t trust me either. He can’t believe that I can protect him. He doesn’t understand the deal-

I hold my breath and remind myself again. I am doing all I can right now. He and Marcey are alive and as safe as I can make them. Trust comes with time. The deal only worked because Rosie and I had time. 

Clover shifts from looking defensive to concerned, reminding me that part of tactical breathing includes actually forcing myself to breathe. In for four, hold, out for eight. In for four…

  
  


“I’m… sorry.” Clover says so quietly I’m almost not sure he said it at all.

“Huh?” I have to hush the internal voice wailing that auditory hallucinations are of course the next branch I hit after falling out of the treehouse of mental instability. 

“I um,” he’s clearly uncomfortable, but it is him who’s speaking, “I should have woken you, and I could have helped clean up last night.”

I can’t imagine how stressed he must be after everything that’s happened in the past few hours. Doubly so considering it’s compelled him to apologize. 

“Oh, Clover, no. Don’t worry about it. Especially not the mess last night. You weren’t even able to get back in bed dear, you were definitely too ill to try and clean..”  
  
My words bring a look of utter confusion to Clovers face.  
  
“Ill? I wasn’t ill.”  
  
Surely my quilt and night shirt would beg to differ. My first thought is that he’s lying in an attempt to keep from being punished, but he seems so sincere, and I’m not even a bit angry. It’d been an uncomfortable thing to wake up to in the middle of the night, but medical training had desensitized me to most bodily fluids.  
  
“You were very ill, do you not remember? How are you feeling now?”  
  
It's less stressful to worry about him, considering he’s right in front of me to fuss over. Clovers not running any sort of fever, the only thing I find concerning is the fact he doesn’t remember what happened last night at all. He’s had a few odd night spells of rolling out of bed and grumbling in his sleep. I’d chalked it all up to him not being used to sleeping in an actual bed…  
  
“I’m fine! I wasn’t sick!” Clover growls and fidgets as I check him for a fever, but he doesn’t try to dodge my hand, “Aren’t there more important things for you to be worried about?”  
  
After the party, away from here, I’ll give him a proper check over. But for now…   
  
“If you start feeling bad at any point tonight, tell me, okay?” I cringe belatedly at my own words, can I trust him to let me know..?  
  
The only answer he gives me is an annoyed huff. Then he brushes off my hand and goes to start picking at the food.   
  
The thought of eating cramps my stomach. If I’d gotten up on time I would have been able to force a piece of toast down my throat, but now that doesn’t seem feasible. I’d rather Clover eat his fill now anyway. I’ll be able to raid the refreshments later, but Clover won’t be able to get anything unless I give it to him.  
  
I’m not going to let him out of my sight tonight.   
  
Clover takes interest in me again when I start clearing a path to the closet door.  
  
“Uhhhh, what are you doing?”  
  
“Getting our clothes,” I say, “What are you doing?”  
  
“You can’t be serious!” At least he’s making an attempt not to yell, “Did you forget about the rug of death we locked in there??”  
  
“Well, we can’t host a party in our pajamas…”  
  
Clover grumbles, but when it comes time to actually open the door he comes stand guard behind me.  
  
I open the door slowly. Both of us expect to see a stripe of color bolt out of the crack, but nothing does. It isn’t until I’ve opened the door entirely that I see the doormat, now several swirling shades of blue and grey, rolled up in the small space's corner.  
  
“Oh no…” I whisper, “Clover, look, it's so sad and scared…”  
  
“Nico, it tried to fucking kill us last night.”  
  
“Maybe it was an accident! Who knows how long it was cooped up in that box, maybe it was just excited.”  
  
I crouch down and reach for the rug, moving slower when I notice the swirls of anxious green and panicked yellow.  
  
“Shh shh, it's okay,” I soothe the rug, “I’m sorry we got so mad…”  
  
The doormat stays rolled up as I grab it and bring it out of the closet.   
  
“You can stay out for the rest of today if you can stay quiet, after the party I’ll bring you to a place where you can fly around all you want. Sound good?”  
  
The rug unrolls itself in my lap, gains several swirls of light pink, and then slowly flutters away from me to settle by the bathroom door.  
  
I turn to Clover and find him looking at me with a surprising lack of anger. Neither of us say anything for a moment, it seems like he was expecting something from me.  
  
“... How about you eat while I get dressed? I can help you with your hair after.”

It hadn’t taken long for me to realize that Clover had no idea how to actually take care of his hair. He hates brushing it especially, which means it got pretty matted. It had taken a lot for me to have him let me cut out the worst of it. 

Predictably, Clover scowls. But he doesn’t seem interested in arguing. I leave him picking at a sandwich while I make myself presentable. 

Our outfits are all coordinated, my jacket the same shade of pale blue as Marcey’s dress and Clover's shirt. Well, it wasn’t meant to be his unfortunately so the fit isn’t perfect. But he tends to enjoy the occasional frills and lace so I doubt he’ll actually mind. And if he does, I know he won’t make a fuss after he learns that Marcey picked out everything months ago. He gets along so well with her in the few brief interactions I’ve seen them have. I know a soft spot for kids when I see one.  
  
Once I’m dressed and fancified, it's Clover’s turn.   
  
“Aren’t we running out of time already? Let's not waste more fussing over me-”  
  
His attempts at weaseling out of having his hair done manage to make me crack a smile.  
  
“We’re already late.. It’d be better to at least get us both looking nice. If I went down now, it’d just start a fight…”  
  
It's a shame Clover hates having his hair fussed with, because I really enjoy playing with it. The top couple layers are thin and wavy while the lower layers, particularly on the back of his head, have a thicker almost wool-like texture. I find it calming to carefully comb and braid all of his hair back, tying it off with a length of black ribbon to match his collar.   
  
“There!” I say with a smile, “Your mane has been tamed, little lion.”  
  
He gently brushes his fingers down the braid, looking thoughtful.  
  
“I didn’t think you knew,” he said softly, “I’ve been trying to not let my breed be too obvious.”  
  


I don’t question this admission of his. It's too rare for him to disclose something personal, if I press he’d probably just clam up entirely.   
  
“It's not too obvious. Especially with the braid. You could pass for some of the other dwarf breeds easy enough.”   
  
I don’t ask why he feels the need to hide, that's obvious enough. He’s a runner. We’re facing down a crowd tonight. He’s worried about being recognized.   
  
Clover nods slowly, then takes his clothes to go get changed out of sight. I take a moment to review my welcoming speech. Not that I should have to, it's the most basic thing I could fit on two notecards. But I just know my mind will go blank the second I’m in front of a crowd.   
  
Obsessing over my notes won’t help either, but it gives me the illusion of feeling prepared.

“Am I, um, wearing this right?”   
  


The fit isn’t as bad as I was expecting, but that doesn’t mean it's great. What's more of a problem, and the source of Clover's apparent distress, is that the style doesn’t suit him at all. He’s beautiful, and so is the shirt, but they’re two different types of beautiful. The frills along the shirts front and the lace trimming his shorts are sweet and perfect for him, in my humble opinion. But the flowiness of the sheer material hanging from his shoulder and wrists suggest a form that is far too elegant. With his arms out, the fabric hangs in folds that resemble insect wings. But the effect is a bit ruined once you notice his fluffy tail poking out of the back of the shorts.   
  
“You’re wearing it perfectly.” I try to assure him.  
  
“I’m sensing a ‘but’...”  
  
“There's no but, you look great. I just wish we’d had time to custom order something more… you.”  
  
Clover frowns down at his outfit, but he doesn’t ask to change. And I’m not about to extend an offer for him to. None of his other clothes would be any more appropriate for tonight.   
  
There's a knock on the door, and the frightened voice of a maid telling me that my time is up. It’s mid-afternoon and guests have already taken their seats in the formal dining room. I was supposed to meet with my father, I should have been greeting people at the door-  
  
Clover takes my arm, first with a quick pat as though he might get burned by touching me, then slowly as if expecting me to pull away. He looks up at me with obvious concern and confusion.  
  
“It’s alright,” I find myself saying, “Everything will be fine. It’s just a few hours- you remember what we talked about, right?”  
  
Please just listen to me. Just this once trust me blindly, I will never do this to you again I swear, I’ll never put you in harms way again-  
  
“M.. master?” his nose scrunches, I assume from the bitter word in his mouth, “What is the matter with you?”  
  
I’m sweating bullets as I shove the notecards into my pocket.  
  
“I don’t want to do this,” it’s a truth I seldom admit out loud, “I really don’t want to do this.”  
  
He’s quiet as I lead the way out of the safety of my somewhat dilapidated bedroom and down to the manors seldom used ballroom. Small circular tables have been set all around, leaving one corner for the music ensemble and the center of the room clear for dancing.   
  
Every seat is filled, except for mine and my fathers. Both at a rectangular table on the far side of the room. Marcey is the first face I focus on, and she gives me a brilliant smile. She’s at the head table, flanked by flower arrangements that I didn’t pick out. They’re lovely and I hope she had fun designing them.  
  
My father’s gaze is the next I catch, and judging by the way his grip tightens on his cane at the sight of me I am glad we didn’t come down earlier. The fact we’re in a room full of people is the only reason he’s holding back.  
  
Too soon, all eyes are on me. I’m toeing the line between fashionably late and just on time- surely it must seem purposeful, for me to make a grand entrance just as everyone has gotten to their seats.  
  
I should give my speech now, say something, anything. But my mouth has suddenly gone dry and I can’t seem to fill my lungs. Instinctively my grip tightens on Clover only for him to slip from his hold on my arm. It feels as though I’m watching from far away as he daintily steps in front of me and bows low to the room.  
  
“Beloved guests of my master, thank you all for coming,” its the start of my speech, hardly even edited, “Please enjoy this night of food, drink, and music.”  
  
On ‘music’ I give a jerk of a signal to the band so they start playing, and to my surprise nobody seems to give us a second thought. The room swells with music and quiet conversation.  
  
Was.. was that it? That’s what I was so worried about? Sure I also had a line of the typical thanks I should offer my father but… nobody seems to have noticed, or maybe they just don’t care. I’ve always known these parties were more for him and not me, but it’d never seemed… I’d always thought…  
  
Clover, my savior, comes back and takes my arm again without hesitation. The subtle elbow in my ribs spurs me forward so that we’re crossing the room before any of the guests can notice my stupor. Most eyes are off us, but my heart is still racing.   
  
I take my seat next to Marcey, my father sits on my opposite side, and Clover goes down at my feet. I wish I could say that the reason I reach out and stroke his hair is for his benefit, or a silent thank you. Really, I’m just selfish and need to hide the fact my hands are still shaking.  
  
“Explain yourself.” The corner of my father's mouth barely moved as he muttered.  
  
His request wasn’t exactly clear. What did he want me to explain? Why I hid in my room until the very last minute? Why I didn’t give my own welcoming speech? Why the words my pet said for me were so few?  
  
There's nothing I can say that would appease him.  
  
“Sorry..” I mumble back, folding my hands in my lap.  
  
“You’re acting like a miserable child, not a man of twenty four.”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
I try to tell myself that I’m not afraid of him. I try to be angry instead, and I am. But my heart still pounds in my chest and I still feel as if I am about to shatter from his gaze alone.  
  
“Papa?” Marcey speaks quietly, leaning past me to get our fathers attention, “Papa, will you dance with me?”  
  
I feel worse about his rage being turned to my sister, even if it's still directed at me.  
  
“Marcella, I haven’t danced since before you were born. What makes you think I’d like to start now?”  
  
There was a beat of silence where I tried to signal to Marcey as discreetly as possible to just drop it- but I’m ignored.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry,” my sister says with an innocent bat of her eyes, “You’re about to be busy talking to Madam Ennis in a moment anyway…”  
  
A glance across the room shows an older woman in a tight gown and high heels attempting to waddle across the currently empty dance floor. Madam Ennis has been trying to catch our fathers eye for years, starting shortly after our mothers death. She's a widow herself, Madam Ennis, and it couldn’t have happened to a more unfortunate woman. Her personality is so bubbly and cheerful that it has always boggled my mind she chose my father to chase after. She could do, and most definitely deserves, better.  
  
It's a match that’s simply not made to be. My father loathes her. So much so that he rethinks Marcey’s plea for a dance just to avoid the woman for a few minutes more.  
  
“Fine. Come on then, quickly,” He stands, leaning on his cane sparingly. Marcey takes his free hand and I get his cold gaze turned back onto me, “See if you can be sociable without making a scene, Nicolai.”  
  
It's not a blow with his cane, nor is it a death sentence, but my lungs can’t understand that. I struggle to not seem like a dying fish as Marcey and our father go out to the center of the room. He doesn’t so much as dance as he does sway the one hand in Marcey’s grip and occasionally lead her in a twirl.   
  
I watch them from my lonely table, forcing slow breaths in and out of my lungs until I think that I can pretend to be a person again.  
  
“Come, Clovis.” I order softly, standing with the grace of a newborn deer. He takes my arm again, which wasn’t exactly what I wanted but it does help steady me a bit.  
  
There's a bit of instinctual preservation that kicks in as I drift from table to table, offering thanks for coming and receiving well wishes in return. It's easier to manage in small groups. Easier to laugh, smile, and nod along to others words when they’re the center of attention. 

Most of the guests are familiar. Old, wealthy families with ties to my father or his business. Most clearly have no desire to speak with me for more than a couple exchanged pleasantries, me and my oddities aren’t worth their time. Then there are the select few that like to pretend they’re relatives, since apart from the obvious I don’t have any living. Handshakes turn to hugs and kisses on the knuckle as well as further invasions of personal space. I can grin and bare it, I have to, but what makes me anxious is their treatment of Clover.    
  
He tolerates their inspections with his hand behind his back and a straight face. I can see the tenseness in his jaw though, and I’m sure there's others who can as well. I do what I can to distract from him, and for the most part it works. At least until we’re suddenly face to face with a girl I’ve never seen before. 

“Nicolai Ward!” She cheers, “Congratulations on another year, and may there be many more.”

When she stands we’re about the same height, though the heels on my shoes are an inch higher than hers. Everything from her dress to her smile is dazzling. This is the sort of person that would be very hard to forget. 

“Why thank you, miss. I’m afraid I can’t remember your name. Have we met before?”

I discreetly mask wiping sweat from my palms by adjusting my jacket, then go in for a handshake. 

“Oh no, we haven’t, your invitation was sent to my uncle. But he couldn’t make it, so I’m here in his stead.” Her grip is lax at first, but it briefly tightens as she seems to glance at something behind me. 

“I see, that's too bad… of course your uncle is ser..?”

“Bisharp. Fergus Bisharp. I’m Colette, I’ve inherited his business.”

The gears in my mind click like a broken clock as it takes an embarrassingly long moment for me to realize why that name sounds so familiar. 

“Oh. Oh, I heard about your uncle. I’m so sorry for your loss. Such a tragedy, I never had the chance to meet face to face with him. We had a meeting scheduled a few weeks from now, I was planning on buying my new pet from him.”

“Yes. Shame.” Colette is still smiling but the warmth is no longer there, “Seems you found a replacement easily enough though.”

I glance back at Clover, who looks like he’s seen a ghost. He’s blatantly staring at her with his fists clenched to his sides. 

“Yes, I did.” I say evenly, “This is Clovis. My sister found him at a shelter. Clovis, be a dear and get me a drink.”

I don’t know what exactly is going on but I figure the best solution is for me to give him a chance to go clear his head. His eyes briefly flick to mine before he nods and leaves my side for the first time all evening. 

“Did she now?” Colette muses, watching him go, “Odd. You know, my uncle had a show pet that looked terribly similar.”

That's the most casual accusation I’ve ever received. I try to just be grateful she isn’t making a scene. 

“I had no idea,” I say honestly, “I’m afraid I’m not all that interested in pet shows. Your uncle was interested in breeding too, wasn’t he? If mine is similar, maybe they’re relatives.”

“Maybe.” She’s less than convinced, but I don’t have time to convince her any further. 

My father is standing by the hall doorway, waiting for my attention. It’s lucky enough that I spot Clover quickly, although he’s carrying a slightly depleted glass of wine. 

“Well it’s been wonderful meeting you, but I’m afraid my father needs me. Perhaps we’ll meet again soon?” I start backing away before hearing her answer. The picture of confidence and certainly not suspicious guilt. 

I yoink the glass out of Clovers hand and take a pointed sip. I’m not really upset, but if he starts acting out then the night will only get worse. Of course he can’t just tell me what's wrong. Not in the middle of my father's crowded ballroom.    
  
I let him trail behind me instead of linking our hands or arms. Maybe some time with eyes off of him would help him recover from whatever had him so surprised...

That thought gets set aside for a moment after I approach my father and receive new directions. I hadn’t realized how quickly the hours had been passing. It was getting close to time for the strictly dinner guests to be leaving, my father had already picked out the business associates he wanted to spend the night drinking and smoking with. 

I was expected to join them after seeing off everyone else.   
  
“Clover,” I said softly, watching my father hobble down the hall towards the library, “Would you mind escorting Marcey up to her room for me? I’m going to see off our guests, take some time and find me in the library when you’re ready.”   
  
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. For a moment I fear that he’s going to refuse. It's obvious that he’s still shaken, and he’s been supporting me all evening. I can manage on my own for a few seconds. I doubt he’s more at ease down here with me than upstairs with my little sister.   
  
“We’ll be leaving soon,” I both promise and warn, “I feel bad we didn’t have much time to read together on this visit. Think you could make it up to her a bit?”   
  
“... fine.” He huffs, turning on his heel to go get Marcey from where she’s half asleep at our table. Poor kid, she must have been bored out of her mind all evening.

  
  


  
  
Time feels even more unstable once Clover has left my side. It's really all I can do to sip my drink by the door and offer a cheerful goodnight to those who pass me. When the ballroom is empty, there are a few faces I don’t remember seeing. Particularly that Bisharp girl, I should have offered her an apology for our awkward conversation earlier. She must have slipped by and I was too out of it to notice, or maybe she left right after our encounter.

Unfortunately, I have bigger issues to tend to.    
  
The second I open the library doors I’m hit with the scent of pipe smoke. Further proof that my father is heartless, choosing to smoke in a room full of books, wonder what it will cost to get the smell out of the pages..

Bumbling right in front of the door is one Mr. Edward Hewitt, the closest thing my father has to a best friend. He’s humming to himself and swaying side to side, just in the way enough that I can’t easily go past him.   
  
Mustering all my courage, I take a timid step into the room and nervously clear my throat to get the man’s attention.    
  
“Shame about your bug,” He mutters in my general direction when he notices me, wine heavy on his breath.   
  
“It’s a pity, but my lovely sister got me a replacement.”

  
Hewitt laughed, “Oh I’ve seen your replacement! What a pretty little thing, is it our entertainment for tonight?”   
  
Since my hands are clasped behind my back, he can’t see the white knuckles of my clenched fist. I manage to smile through his words, but only just barely.

“Don’t you know you’re at a party, little Ward?” Hewitt continues, throwing a heavy arm around my shoulder, “You’re too much like your father. Always have been, why, I remember one time when you were just a mite, no bigger than that pretty little sister of yours-”   
  
My skin crawls. I don’t want this man to be touching me, to be talking about me so casually. But since he’s moved more out of my way, I can now see across the room. See my father standing next to the lit fireplace, holding a metal rod. His gaze nails my feet to the floor.    
  
“Oh we searched for you for- for nearly an hour before we heard you bawling, it was the most pitiful thing I’d ever seen- little Nicolai Ward trapped under a mess of coats,” Hewitt laughs still, but hardly anyone else does. The man tells this story at least once a year. I don’t doubt the rest of the guests have heard it plenty of times before.

  
At least the story embarasses my father as well. With his eyes off me and Hewitt too far gone to tell if my shrugging his arm off me is playful or hateful, I can regain some personal space. I step around Hewitt and find that there's only one open seat left in the room, (I’m assuming the chair that has an open bottle of wine nestled against one arm has been claimed by an obvious party.) So I’m forced to sit closest to the fireplace, uncomfortably within range of the metal rod my father is pushing into the heart of the flame. Without seeing the end, I recognize it, and decide I don’t want to think too much about it. 

The other guests, 5 or so madams and sirs, aren’t nearly as addled. More of them are smoking rather than drinking. There's no forced formality or familiarity in this room, these people are here for my father, not me. I may as well be part of the armchair I’m rigid in.   
  
Even still, I have more life to me than the pitiful creature I’ve just noticed in the corner. My father has received a new dog.    
  
Before noticing them I had, somewhat irrationally, feared that the branding iron my father was heating was going to be my punishment for embarrassing him. The last pieces of my soul leave me in a breath when I realize that in a way, it still is. 

I’m just not the one getting burned. 


End file.
